Life is a patchwork of impressions, of vanishing personalities. She began to weep in long, aching sobs. Thames took it, and beheld the portrait of a young man, apparently—judging from his attire—of high rank, whose proud and patrician features certainly presented a very striking resemblance to his own. She washed her face with unwonted elaboration before she went to bed. There was question in Gerald’s gaze as it met hers, and apology in his voice. She’s got a great imagination.
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