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’ Lady Bicknacre, resplendent in purple satin, and basking in her triumphantly full rooms—for it was obvious that her patronage of the refugees had set a quickly to be followed fashion—was all sorrow and sympathy when Gerald spoke of them. She slid her cheek down the tweed sleeve of his coat. Melusine ripped at the buttons of the garment, dragging it open and away, and gasped at the massive red stain on his shirt. He agreed it was disgraceful.
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