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Jack could hardly be accounted good-looking: Thames, on the contrary, was one of the handsomest boys possible. “Your father is dead too, I believe,” he continued, “and your mother. \"No, what?\" She said. Instead of English villas and cottages there were chalets and Italian-built houses shining white; there were lakes of emerald and sapphire and clustering castles, and such sweeps of hill and mountain, such shining uplands of snow, as she had never seen before. She fidgeted and looked away. It was a precious thing, a beautiful cabochon—do you know what that is?” “What’s a cabochon?” “It’s a precious jewel that doesn’t have facets yet. This is your room. The vast mirrored chamber, with its four little square window bays, two either side of the large raised dais that led to the French doors, was very full of company for the start of the Little Season.
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