” Lucy blinked from the winter sunlight and reached behind herself to yank at her hood. "Going to befuddle himself between now and dinner," was the comment of Prudence. ‘Where the devil have you been?’ ‘Consorting with a nun in the gardens. ’ Lady Bicknacre, resplendent in purple satin, and basking in her triumphantly full rooms—for it was obvious that her patronage of the refugees had set a quickly to be followed fashion—was all sorrow and sympathy when Gerald spoke of them. She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments.
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