The address was of course her destination, thousands of miles away, an infinitesimal spot in a terrifying space. “Nigel is like all men,” Lady Lescelles continued. He sounds to me like a soldier of fortune. She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments. ‘Madame, I trust I see you well?’ ‘Merci.
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