The thought passed through his mind even as he started to cross the terrace at a jogtrot, moving to head her off. The Dawn Pearl. She was perhaps three-and-twenty, and very pink and healthy-looking, showing a great deal of white and rounded neck above her business-like but altogether feminine blouse, and a good deal of plump, gesticulating forearm out of her short sleeve. All that is jolly and as it should be. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers. She was a much lighter and more frivolous person, very charming and companionable—but with a difference—a great difference.
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