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The image in the glass was not clear, for the light was not bright enough to see properly, but the shadows of her riding habit and the hat with its waving plumes framed a countenance that gazed serenely back at her out of long-lashed blue eyes. That her husband was not touching her anymore grew to be like a disease, something to be cured. ‘I’ve finished me report, sir,’ Trodger said aggrievedly. With a well-simulated unconcern and a heightened color she finished her breakfast. ‘How famous. "Get up, mother," cried Jack; "do not kneel to him.
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