The lunches were individual affairs: sandwiches, bottled olives and jam commandeered from the Victoria. "Mercy!" screamed Mrs. I kept them on myself till the sight of your empty chair and the chill loneliness of it all nearly sent me mad. 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. The misty caravans of which she had dreamed were become actualities.
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