A jar of pink roses upon a tiny table seemed to gain an extra delicacy of colour from the sombre curtains behind. They were so nearly alike that the difference would be due to a shaky hand. A hazy face appeared through the fog of sleep, pale and thin and looming. Mesdames Thierry and Poussaint appeared delighted to meet Gerald, and he was obliged to do the pretty to their daughters too. That wrappered life, as you call it—we’ve burned the confounded rags! Danced out of it! We’re stark!” “Stark!” echoed Ann Veronica. Lord Charvill’s sense of justice would not, however, allow him to repudiate his granddaughter, if indeed this female proved to be the infant lost to the family so many years ago.
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