Had he had the child to think of, he might have recovered from his grief at Mary’s death. ‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. “If you come a step nearer to me,” she said, “I will smash every glass on this table. “Nice sleeve,” she said, and came to his hand and kissed it. She glanced towards her sister, and curiously enough found in her face some faint reflection of her own rather sombre mirth.
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