“Miss Ellicot!” Brendon echoed. She carried herself well, whereas her brother slouched, and there was a certain aristocratic dignity about her that she had acquired through her long engagement to a curate of family, a scion of the Wiltshire Edmondshaws. Almost light-heartedly. “Before this there was a sort of restraint—a make-believe. They sell only their talents, not their bodies; they are not girls of the street. Such names shone brightly in the darkness, with black spaces of unilluminated emptiness about them, as stars shine in the night; but now—now it was different; now it was dawn—the real dawn. The thought of beauty became an obsession.
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