Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon. Gosse had moved forward, his pistol arm out straight, his aim true, the gun cocked. Hill, Meysey Hill. ‘To begin with,’ he said, ‘allow me a very tiny intimacy. I'll call it my wedding gift.
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