’ Lady Bicknacre, resplendent in purple satin, and basking in her triumphantly full rooms—for it was obvious that her patronage of the refugees had set a quickly to be followed fashion—was all sorrow and sympathy when Gerald spoke of them. CHAPTER III. She looked at him gravely and squinted. Everything was fresh and bright, from the kindly manners of the Frutigen cobbler, who hammered mountain nails into her boots, to the unfamiliar wild flowers that spangled the wayside. All at once she realised that Kimble had halted, leaning heavily against the wall. Fresh flowers of loveliness have budded, expanded, died. ’ ‘Leonardo again,’ Gerald muttered and, to her disappointment, dropped her hand. It was no marriage at all. ‘I am not a murderer. His attitude toward her was purely intellectual, free of any sentimentality, utterly selfish.
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