" "It is past," rejoined Lady Trafford, recovering herself by a powerful effort; "but never allude to the circumstance again. She threw her arms around Rollo's neck and laid her cheek upon the flea-bitten head. A corner could hold the promise of a shelf of dainty crystals, volcanic ices of rainbow colors, or figurines of saints sculpted from horn and bone reenacting their martyrdoms on delicate miniature wooden stages. She always left the table when they began to smoke. A child—as innocent as a child! Nothing about life; bemused by the fairy stories you writers call novels! I don't know what you have done; I don't care. Her spirit awoke in dismay to an affection in ruins, to the immense undignified disaster that had come to them. It was wonderful. Anything in the least irregular is like poison to him.
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