‘Oh, dearie me, you make me feel a traitor. “I suppose you’re like the rest of them. Every eye seemed focussed upon her; and yet she had known the sensation to be the conceit of her imagination. She knew the significance: the red corpuscle was being burnt out by the fires of alcohol. Days later, Sebastian found her by the lake, sobbing. "Suppose we go and have tea? I'd like to take you to a teahouse I know, but we'll go to the Victoria instead.
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