CHAPTER XIX. She was posing before the mirror, critically, miserably, defensively, and perhaps bewilderedly. ‘At me,’ she uttered, holding her own pistol high and aiming it steadily. “Certainly her voice is far more musical. Could you come to tea at my rooms one afternoon, or would you dine with me somewhere, and do a theatre? We could have a private room, of course, if you do not wish to be seen about London, and a box at the theatre. I know you. My business is with Lady Trafford. So am I.
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