Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon. Sir John felt that after all forty-five was not so very old. It was as if he could smell it on her. And how much I owe you, too, dearest Winifred, for your kindness and attention. But those days are over—quite over.
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