Even Capes had been for her merely an excitant to passionate love—a mere idol at whose feet one could enjoy imaginative wallowings. Mr. “Let us walk round to Covent Garden,” he suggested. The cold air gave her gooseflesh under her red brocade dress as she slipped outside. “Nigel is like all men,” Lady Lescelles continued. I hate myself!” She collapsed to the floor, sobbing.
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