Papillon would have broken him down; anything tender would have sapped his will; and like as not he would have left the stool and rushed into the night. “These are her rooms,” she said. Was that it? Had she clothed this unhappy young man with glamour? Or was it because he was so alone? She could not get through the husks to the kernel of what really actuated her. He died in the war. ’ ‘Indeed?’ said Gerald, surprised. Wagner had just been in love when he wrote it all. Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon.
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