One day it was gone. ‘You, Mademoiselle Charvill, are as unlike most of your sex as you can be. Oh! and love—love! We’ve had so splendid a time, and fought our fight and won. But that other world, in spite of her resolute exclusion of it, was always looking round corners and peeping through chinks and crannies, and rustling and raiding into the order in which she chose to live, shining out of pictures at her, echoing in lyrics and music; it invaded her dreams, it wrote up broken and enigmatical sentences upon the passage walls of her mind. Wonderful! The water, dripping from you, must have looked like pearls. She is extremely lovely, but for her to have borne the name of the Blessed Virgin would have been nothing short of sacrilege.
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