A broken laugh followed the action. He raised her to a sitting position. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. ‘That is better, no?’ ‘Dieu. The small grey feathers of her exquisitely shaped fan waved gently backwards and forwards. “I imagine,” Sir John said, “that your sister would acquaint him with it. To-morrow I shall come and talk to you again—of other things. The pole-chair caravan resumed its journey.
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