Love lives on a higher plane. She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening—it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father’s house in Morningside Park—thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action. She had left for ever the cage, the galling leash: she was free. “Does he never speak to you of—of old times?” she faltered. Her new husband had paid for a cadre of escorts back to Mantua. I am up to the ears in it all— every moment I can spare. There was no sense in creating further difficulties for herself by arguing with the sergeant over her identity. The young fellow was almost as odd in his way as the girl was in hers. “Quite particularly nice,” said her aunt. Her first orders were to summon the rest of her servants to make immediate preparations for her departure for Lancashire.
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