“Cheveney!” she repeated. ‘You are extremely empty-headed, Lucy. She occupied a small sofa, a little apart, a ruddy-complexioned gentleman some years her senior beside her, and glanced about with an air of considerable unease. His face will be all I need. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. But after that it was easy. It is not for myself I fear.
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