“By Jove!” he broke out, “one tries to take a serious, sober view. You make a game with me, imbecile. You’ll end there one day, mark my words. I believe you’ve crushed a gland or something. As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back. Don’t think it was anything better than fever—or a bit beautiful. His progress, however, was checked by loud acclamations, announcing the arrival of the Master of the Mint and his train.
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