” “I think,” Lady Lescelles said, putting down her teacup, “that I must send Nigel to plead his own cause. Wood, in his Sunday habiliments and Sunday buckle. Outside the door he turned and stared at the panels. Generations had been born and died in between the times she had gotten laid. In a little while—to-morrow—all these tender, beautiful emotions will pass away, and I'll become what I was yesterday, a cynical, miserly old spinster.
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