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I suppose this is the sort of damned rubbish—” “Oh! Ssh, Peter!” cried Miss Stanley. “I’m being honest with you. "Is it poison?" she asked. ” She replied. “I may not see the Widgetts for some little time, father,” she said. She sat on the edge of the bed —the wardress was too busy with the flood of arrivals that day to discover that she had it down—and her skin was shivering from the contact of these garments. The sunshine was brilliant, the air mild.
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