” “I suppose,” said Constance, stencilling away at bright pink petals, “it’s our lot. The conversation which her entrance had interrupted began to buzz again all around her. He saw her young and graceful back as she descended from the carriage, severely ignoring him, and recalled a glimpse he had of her face, bright and serene, as his train ran out of Wimbledon. I loved her beyond anything in heaven or on earth—to idolatry.
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