Looked like them statues of the Holy Mother I see about the place. Stanley as they drew alongside, to account for his own ruffled and heated expression. Their idea of maidenly innocence was just a blank white—the sort of flat white that doesn’t shine. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. "His life—or yours?" "No one shall harm you more, my dear," cried Lady Trafford. "I'd forgotten. There was a moment’s breathless and disappointed silence.
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