"If I were so, I should not be here," returned Trenchard. Stanley as they drew alongside, to account for his own ruffled and heated expression. She went to her room and changed the loose morning gown in which she had lunched for a dark walking dress. She stared down at them from a high window, peering down at their moonlit faces in the bed heavy with furs, the same bed where she had given birth to Gianfrancesco’s dead son. Wood, carving for his friends, and pledging the carpenter, he had his hands full. Had she too been flying from something and had accepted this method of escape? But what frying-pan could be equal to this fire? All this led him back to the original circle.
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