With a rustle of her full lilac petticoats, Miss Froxfield turned back to Alderley. “It may not be just and so forth, but, after all, it is how things are. “Beats me. ‘Laisse-moi,’ she threw at him, her brief attack of sobs already ended, although the trace of tears on her cheeks bore witness to its sincerity. With a well-simulated unconcern and a heightened color she finished her breakfast. And if he didn’t, what was the good of seeing him? “I wish he was a woman,” she said, “then I could make him my friend. I know in Paris you pinched and scraped that your sister might have the dresses and entertainments she desired. We will get on with the agreement and you shall have in it whatever rubbish you like. Promise me. That is so awful. They are tending to congregate, our poor French friends.
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