The two aunts of these young ladies lived for many years in the dower house upon my estate in Hampshire. "The end is the most beautiful in English literature. ” “The real, identical other,” said Capes, and took and bit the tip of her little finger. His stories had enchanted her, even if in some deep corner of her heart she guessed they were not entirely true. “It is too late for visitors,” she remarked. ‘Poor Gerald has been very busy about your affairs this last week. Capes came back into her mind. “We have scarcely mentioned your name. And then you go—and half throttle me. ‘Gérard will think that I have gone back to London. I received a telegram, as you know, during dinner. One of these, a lady, evidently a confirmed invalid, and attired in deep mourning, reclined upon a sort of couch, or easy chair, set on wheels, with her head supported by cushions, and her feet resting upon a velvet footstool.
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