“This is all madness,” she declared wearily. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. Her figure was perfect,—tall, graceful, rounded,—and, then, she had deep liquid blue eyes, that rivalled the stars in lustre. I was engaged to dine with your sister and her husband, and I sent a wire. Her fingers passed over a cunningly wrought surface of wood, with just the correct amount of protrusion, the precise colours of dyed leather, and cleverly gilded surfaces and neatly painted lettering. “Will you come in, Sir John. She was very greatly exercised by the two systems of values—the two series of explanations that her comparative anatomy on the one hand and her sense of beauty on the other, set going in her thoughts.
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