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Who knows but that the Duke will put the tender question and will ask her to name the happy day? But these golden days are past. Tunbridge Wells has sunk from fashion. The gaming tables are gone. A band still plays mornings in the Pantilles or did so before the war but cheaper gauds are offered in the shops. Emerald brooches are fallen to paste.
All morning the widow sits in the Pantilles and listens to the band and knits. Flossie sits on the flagging at her feet with an intent eye upon the ball of worsted. Twice in a morning three times if the gods are kind the ball rolls to the pavement. Flossie has been waiting so long for this to happen. It is the bright moment of her life the point and peak of happiness. She darts upon it.
Or Lady Euphemia, wrapped in silks, languishes mornings in her lodgings with a latest novel, but goes forth at noon upon the Pantilles to shop in the stalls. A box of patches must be bought. A lace flounce has caught her eye. Bless her dear eyes, as she bends upon her purchase she is fair to look upon. The Grand Rout is set for tonight.
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