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. “Wild horses—not if they have all the mounted police in London—shan’t keep me out. The young man looked at her. This time she feinted as his point came up to deflect her own, and disengaging, passed under and cut at his cheek. “I wonder which of us is right,” she said.
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