The same look she had often seen in the eyes of the drunken beachcombers her father had brought home, and it had not filled her with horror. “I got your note just in time,” he remarked. “Can’t you believe me? I am Meysey Hill. And there was no intimation whatever that the blinds would ever go up or the windows or doors be opened, or the chandeliers, that seemed to promise such a blaze of fire, unveiled and furnished and lit.
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