I didn’t! I didn’t! After all—” For a time her mind ran on daintiness and its defensive restraints as though it was the one desirable thing. “Did you tell him?” Capes smiled faintly. Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon.
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