As soon as he was gone, the two women divested themselves of their hoods and cloaks, and threw them, as if inadvertently, into the farthest part of the angle in the wall. There were lines in her face that age had not put there. The soil was identical, the climate; still, they would not bear the Olympian fruit, with its purple-lined jacket and its snow-white pulp. Lord knew why he had any interest in an impertinent girl who would certainly have spit him with that dagger! He reached into his pocket and brought it out, examining it in the increasing light as he slowly made his way back up the terrace. "Get ready the irons, Caliban. Love stories!… A sob rushed into her throat, and to smother it she buried her face in a pillow. Lady Trafford uttered a prolonged scream, and fainted.
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