"Sir Rowland, I salute you as your nephew. I——” She threw herself into an easy chair. 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. She put down the sketch-books and apparatus she had brought with her, pulled out her stool, and sat down. Suddenly he burst into wild laughter; but equally as suddenly something strangled the sound in his throat.
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