’ Lady Bicknacre, resplendent in purple satin, and basking in her triumphantly full rooms—for it was obvious that her patronage of the refugees had set a quickly to be followed fashion—was all sorrow and sympathy when Gerald spoke of them. He'll mend, I hope. Immeasurable disgust possessed her. He would make her rub her lips with waxes and other ointments, precursors of lipsticks. ” He would say every time she wore it. It’s a sort of home-leaving instinct.
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