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Updated: May 12, 2025
Marcella kept her seat by the fire on the old gilt fenderstool, conscious in a dreamlike way of the room in front of her the stately room with its stucco ceiling, its tall windows, its Prussian-blue wall-paper behind the old cabinets and faded pictures, and the chair covers in Turkey-red twill against the blue, which still remained to bear witness at once to the domestic economies and the decorative ideas of old Robert Boyce conscious also of the figures on either side of her, and of her own quick-beating youth betwixt them.
"L'Histoire des Uscoques," I murmured. How far away it seemed. There was a pause. I regarded her for a moment or two. She was sunk again in serious reflection. I sighed at the general dismalness of life, I suppose and resumed my Arabic. "Seer Marcous." "Yes?" "Why didn't you drive me away when I came back?" I shut up the Arabic grammar and went and sat beside her on the fenderstool.
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