"My mother!—my poor mother!" ejaculated Thames, falling on his knees, and bursting into tears. She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone. " "It is strange," replied Winifred, artlessly. Her head dangled unnaturally for an instant, unleashed from its moorings, then sank to join her husband’s on the floor. She sat down by the paperrack with a general feeling of resemblance to Vivie Warren, and looked through the Morning Post and Standard and Telegraph, and afterward the half-penny sheets. She’s so embarrassed about it that she only wears one-piece swimsuits when she tans outside.
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