. . He tore it down just as the Wastrel rose, wavering slightly. He understood. Although she had said a great deal when she heard about the shooting that had left poor Jack so badly injured. ’ ‘You need not be a nun,’ he said, leaning towards her. That world of fine printed cambrics and escorted maidens, of delicate secondary meanings and refined allusiveness, presented itself to her imagination with the brightness of a lost paradise, as indeed for many women it is a lost paradise.
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