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Updated: May 29, 2025
He felt out for her hand across the sheet, found and held it. There were footsteps upon the terrace to the right, the scent of a cigar, Ludovic Quayle's voice in question, Honoria St. Quentin's in answer, both with enforced discretion and lowness of tone. General Ormiston joined them. Miss St. Quentin laughed gently. The sound was musical and sweet. Footsteps and voices died away.
Parson Quayle's household consisted only of himself and two maiden daughters, but that was too much for the lively young Frenchwoman. While her husband lived, she suffocated under the old-maid regime; and when he was gone she made no more fight with destiny, but took some simple ailment, and died suddenly.
And so it became a favourite pastime of Mr. Quayle's to present to her cases of conscience, of conduct, of manners or morals usually those of a common acquaintance for discussion, that he might observe her verdict. He imagined this a scientific, psychologic exercise.
Lady Calmady's sweet voice, meanwhile, went on in kindly question. Ludovic Quayle's in well-placed, slightly elaborate answer. The near horse threw back its head and the pole-chains rattled smartly. Honoria's lips parted, but the words, if words indeed there were, died in her throat. She raised her hands, as though putting a tangible and actual presence away from her.
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