‘I know,’ said Prudence Sindlesham, sympathy in her tone. I'm an old hand at such things. It was as if her aesthetic sense had become inflamed. It’s the rarest luck, the wildest, most impossible accident. " At the sound of his voice every vestige of colour fled from Winifred's cheeks, and the work upon which she was engaged fell from her hand. Ask your own conscience. She seemed smitten with a paroxysm of fear.
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