“In Paris. Instead of English villas and cottages there were chalets and Italian-built houses shining white; there were lakes of emerald and sapphire and clustering castles, and such sweeps of hill and mountain, such shining uplands of snow, as she had never seen before. Stanley’s acquaintance in the train and shown him one or two trifling civilities. Before very long I hope to have definite work. The young lady—if she had come in here at all—had vanished. “Delicious!” she murmured. Had this not been the case, he must have refused even to see his Frenchified granddaughter. Once she stopped in front of a mirror and looked at herself thoughtfully. He looked at Hilary and nodded. . . The winters were bitter here, they could have just as easily been frozen off. Instead, her husband was probably wise. Hill lost a little of his truculency.
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