"Then we're imprisoned. Shall we say at half-past seven?” She rose from her chair. Once in the room, the door locked, the sense of loneliness had dropped away from her as the mists used to drop away from the mountain in the morning. "My chickens are hatched, or, at least, nearly so," replied Shotbolt, with increased merriment. “I loathe afternoon concerts, and——” She was really like her sister he thought, impressed for a moment by the soft brilliancy of her smile.
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