“Thank you,” she said coolly. ‘I thought it was his great-nephew, young Brewis Charvill, who is his heir. The clever hostess having let fall that several distinguished guests from France would be present, the world had flocked to her doors to catch, like the gossip-hungry vultures they were, a glimpse of them. You would be alarmed of how sulphurous it is, how sickeningly sweet. It was an oldfashioned peasant blouse, white, square necked, and trimmed with lace.
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