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Updated: June 19, 2025
You are doubtless correct when you say I have no right to be angry with you, and I suppose it is also true that you are no worse than other men. When I pushed aside that portière to-night I felt an unreasoning anger which it would be hard to account for. Had it been Lord Bective Hollington or Mr. Bolton I I should not have cared. I should not have been angry, I am sure of it.
The air was keen and cold, the walk a long one, and Dartmouth felt like another man by the time he sat down to breakfast. One or two other men joined them. Hollington was unusually witty, the conversation was general and animated, and when Dartmouth left the café the past week seemed an ugly dream. In the afternoon he met the wife of the American Consul-General, Mrs.
But his words and manner indicated that the attack was at last "wearing itself out." "I will do nothing of the sort," replied Hollington. "Get up off that sofa this moment. A week! I am ashamed of you. What would the old lady say?" "She would understand," murmured Dartmouth. "She always understood. I wish she were here now." "I wish she were. She would soon have you out of this. Get up.
The carriage passed them, and Harold's eyes met for a moment those of a girl who was lying back chatting idly with a man who rode on horseback beside her. She was a beautiful creature, truly, with a rich, dark skin, and eyes like a tropical animal's. A youthful face, striking and unconventional. "Well?" queried Hollington. "Yes, a very handsome girl," said Dartmouth.
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