She seemed to have no idea whatever of the emotional states that were becoming to her age and position. It takes too many years to climb even a step in the social ladder. She wore a plain black dress, reaching almost to her throat—her small oval face, with the large brown eyes, was colourless, delicately expressive, yet with something mysterious in its Sphinx-like immobility. She would be enduing this chap with attributes he did not possess, clothing him in fictional ruffles. A Madame Valade and her husband. Paris was full, and it was by no means a retired spot which she had found.
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