“You see, father,” she said, “it isn’t only this affair of the dance. Loneliness—something that was almost physical: as if the vitality had been taken out of the air she breathed. “Only four spoonsful left,” she declared briskly, “and your turn to buy the next pound, Sydney. The rain smelled of the Tyrrhenian Sea, which lay only a few paces beyond the manor's white sea-soaked walls. I'm not noble; so my honourable ancestors will not turn over in their graves. Mike is a simple guy, but he’ll see through any act of yours.
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