Paris, always beautiful even in the darkness, glittered away to the horizon. And turning again, as if the emotions she had churned up kept her on the move, she paced back to the mantel and there stopped, staring at her own reflection in the tarnished mirror. She would be surrendering to all her impulses—particularly the good impulses—many of which society had condemned long since because they entailed too much trouble. ‘You were supposed to be nursing him,’ Martha grumbled, ‘and helping him convalesce.
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