Above her head was an aura of white fire. “It can’t make any difference to you, and there are not half a dozen people in Paris who could tell us apart. “What a beautiful mare’s nest!” she exclaimed. The shape of the head, the height and breadth of the brow, the angle of the nose, the cut of the chin and jaws, all were fine, of a type she had never before looked upon closely. Toys! Delicate trifles! A sex of invalids.
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