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"I can only think of one who at all answers to your description." "The one of whom I was thinking." "Lady Holme?" "Of course." "Don't you think she would be dreadfully bored in Casa Felice?" "Horribly, horribly. Unless " "Unless?" "Who knows what?
The old house Marks, near Romford, pulled down in 1808 after many years of neglect and decay as well as the ancient seat of the Tichbournes in Hampshire, pulled down in 1803 and the west side of Holme Hall, Lancashire, demolished in the last century, proved to have been riddled with hollow walls.
There was a knock at the door, the announcement that a signore was waiting in the drawing-room for the signora. Lady Holme felt an almost ungovernable sensation of physical nausea. She went to her dressing-case and drank one or two burning drops of eau de Cologne. Then she pulled down the veil under her chin and stood in the middle of the room for several minutes without moving.
Suddenly she turned round, stood up and faced him desperately. "Do you care for me, Fritz?" she said. There was a dead silence. It seemed to last for a long while. At length it was broken by a woman's voice crying: "Fritz, Fritz it isn't my fault! It isn't my fault!" "Good God!" Lord Holme said slowly. "It isn't my fault, Fritz! It isn't my fault!"
Have I known the love in which alone all sweetness lives?" The thought had come in like a firefly through an open window. "Have I? Have I?" And something within her felt a stab of pain, something within her soul and yet surely a thousand miles away. "Tutto tutto al mondo e vano," murmured Lady Cardington. "We feel that and we feel it, and do you?" "To-day I seem to," answered Lady Holme.
It was stated that when poor Lord Holme had first seen her, after the operation, the shock had nearly turned his brain. And now it was argued that the only decent thing for a woman in such a plight to do was to preserve at least her dignity, and to retire modestly from the fray in which she could no longer hope to hold her own.
She spoke English with a slight foreign accent which men generally liked and women loathed. Lady Holme loathed it. But she was not fond of her own sex. She believed that all women were untrustworthy. She often said that she had never met a woman who was not a liar, and when she said it she had no doubt that, for once, a woman was speaking the truth. Now, as she heard Mrs.
But she knew that the real reason of the secret hostility she felt towards the American was the fact of their resemblance to each other. Until Miss Schley appeared in London she Viola Holme had been original both in her beauty and in her manner of presenting it to the world. Miss Schley was turning her into a type. It was too bad. Any woman would have disliked it.
And the scene which had just occurred, with all its weakness, its fatuity, its maundering display of degradation and the inability of any self-government, had not somehow destroyed the impression made upon Lady Holme by that something in Carey's eyes. What she had said to Robin Pierce she might not choose ever to say again.
Lord Holme went on calmly humming till the brougham stopped in the long line of carriages that stretched away into the night from the great portico of Arkell House. People were already going in to supper when the Holmes arrived. The Duke, upon whom a painful malady was beginning to creep, was bravely welcoming his innumerable guests.
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