That world of fine printed cambrics and escorted maidens, of delicate secondary meanings and refined allusiveness, presented itself to her imagination with the brightness of a lost paradise, as indeed for many women it is a lost paradise. ‘Marry an Englishman! Which Englishman?’ Melusine shrugged. She seemed to assume that it must certainly be something she had said. Through one doorway she saw a grave Chinaman standing on a stage-like platform. Anna, who had thrown aside her sealskin coat, wore a tight-fitting walking dress of some dark shade. At the door through which she had entered the room stood the so-called Monsieur Valade. Yet she could not bring herself to hate the girl, or even Gianfrancesco, the one who would have sent her to her death more than once. “Mary! What’s going on! Why are you crying?!” He commanded an answer in a worried and slightly irritated tone. Several people in the crowd seemed to be fighting. It keeps dangling in front of my eyes.
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