The misty caravans of which she had dreamed were become actualities. If you were a poet in need of rhymes, you had only to turn to a certain page. 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. Charming girl. ‘Because,’ said Lady Bicknacre in the confidential manner of all matrons when passing on a tidbit of scandal, ‘Nicholas married against his father’s wishes and ran away.
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