Presently she became aware of footsteps hurrying after her, and glanced back to find Miss Klegg, a little out of breath, in pursuit. Plote was sleeping or deaf. . “You are not going out—this evening, I trust,” that lady asked, a trifle dismayed. Strange gurgle-like noises emanated from the crypt. 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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