Yet you can look Cheveney in the face and declare that you do not know him. “Let me hasten,” she said, “to reassure you. Alban's to-night. The woman shrugged her shoulders. That world of fine printed cambrics and escorted maidens, of delicate secondary meanings and refined allusiveness, presented itself to her imagination with the brightness of a lost paradise, as indeed for many women it is a lost paradise.
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