Wood, who appeared to be collecting her energies for a terrible explosion, "in the hope that they may prove acceptable. A jar of pink roses upon a tiny table seemed to gain an extra delicacy of colour from the sombre curtains behind. From suburbs, from country towns—everywhere. The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided. He cocked an eyebrow. “I regret that you should ever have proposed it,” he went on. ” He beamed over the effect of this and shook hands with effusion, and Lady Palsworthy suddenly appeared as his confederate and disentangled the vicar’s aunt. Cheveney was another Paris friend, was he?” she asked.
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