There is Lady Arlingford’s reception to-night, ten till twelve, and the Hatton House ball, marked with a cross, sir, important. We don’t want things to happen. She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone. The address was of course her destination, thousands of miles away, an infinitesimal spot in a terrifying space. You will survive, mark my words.
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