Some shadow of reserve seemed to have crept up between them. Paul’s, were rich and wonderful with the soft sunshine of London, the softest, the finest grained, the most penetrating and least emphatic sunshine in the world. And pouring the contents of a small powderflask into a bumper of brandy, he tendered him the mixture. Her husband was drinking in the tavern with the other guests. Perhaps her odd beauty—and that too was natural—stirred these thoughts into being.
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