The wine bubbled and seethed; and the exquisite bouquet of oranges permeated the room. There was granite in her face and agate in her eyes. If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent. “For my part I can see no difference in any of these French girls who come over here with their demure manner and atrocious songs. Stanley was throughout enigmatical, with an anxious eye on her husband and Alice. The one problem was that it didn’t fly.
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