‘Oh, mon dieu. “You let him touch you!” John whispered back. Her back arched and she felt herself instinctively sinking into him. "A hundred pounds!" exclaimed Shotbolt. Over an old crazy bedstead was thrown a squalid, patchwork counterpane; and upon the counterpane lay a black hood and scarf, a pair of bodice of the cumbrous form in vogue at the beginning of the last century, and some other articles of female attire. He had gained admission somehow, and he too was waiting for Anna. That a longing of hers should be realized in this strange fashion was difficult to believe: it vaguely suggested something of a trap. That world of fine printed cambrics and escorted maidens, of delicate secondary meanings and refined allusiveness, presented itself to her imagination with the brightness of a lost paradise, as indeed for many women it is a lost paradise.
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