Miss Mary to the life, I said, and so she is. Gosse were you born, and Gosse will you remain to your death. The image in the glass was not clear, for the light was not bright enough to see properly, but the shadows of her riding habit and the hat with its waving plumes framed a countenance that gazed serenely back at her out of long-lashed blue eyes. He did not like it, he said, with a significant look, to be reminded of either his books or his dinners after he had done with them.
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