” She batted his arms and slapped him, angrily twisting from his grasp. Then her eyes flashed. From the first of these alighted Thames, or, as he must now be styled, the Marquis de Chatillon. Time was moving so fast, she could no longer count the days since Gosse had come to her with his preposterous suggestion at the Coq d’Or, where they were staying and where he had robbed her and left her and Martha to their fate. 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. “Perhaps, as I’ve only just arrived,” she remarked, “I might be forgiven if I do not change my skirt.
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