But that other world, in spite of her resolute exclusion of it, was always looking round corners and peeping through chinks and crannies, and rustling and raiding into the order in which she chose to live, shining out of pictures at her, echoing in lyrics and music; it invaded her dreams, it wrote up broken and enigmatical sentences upon the passage walls of her mind. “I believe so. “That young man was giving a luncheon party to a dozen friends at the Café de Paris to-day. In the artificial light her skin had the tint and lustre of a yellow pearl. Parbleu, but she was a fool.
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