The idea of this sudden reluctance was elusive; the fact was evident but not the reason for it. She was clad in fresh linen, but still wore the riding-habit she had appropriated, having sponged out the spots of blood late last night and left it to dry in the kitchens. Piercing through every crevice in the clothes, it, in some cases, tore them from the wearer's limbs, or from his grasp. “Agreed,” he said, “certainly,” and drew a checkbook toward him. Women are hypocrites to the last—true only to themselves.
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