The slack of her ridinghabit and full under-petticoats was gathered into her left hand, and her booted ankles were visible as she held the skirts well out of her way. "Mr. “I don’t know how to prove myself to you, John. " "I shouldn't call her queer. My own impression is that he already knows. “MY DEAR MISS STANLEY,” it began,—“I hope you will forgive my bothering you with a letter, but I have been thinking very much over our conversation at Lady Palsworthy’s, and I feel there are things I want to say to you so much that I cannot wait until we meet again. Her face reminded him of a delicate unglazed porcelain cup, filled with blond wine. But I don't understand her; she's over my head. Get me an interview with her.
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