"I thought you'd have got rid of your ill-humour by this time. Darrell stopped, and drew his sword. You have grown into my life. Cloud back of your hat!" He opened his eyes again. “My word holds,” she said. And a custom had grown up of a general tea at four o’clock, under the auspices of a Miss Garvice, a tall and graceful girl of distinguished intellectual incompetence, in whom the hostess instinct seemed to be abnormally developed.
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