Her momentary instinct was to run to him and be comforted, like the old times. A crumpled-up newspaper thrown from the gallery hit her upon the cheek. It was as if he could smell it on her. "Where shall I fly?" exclaimed the lady, bewildered with terror. I can’t love you. She was posing before the mirror, critically, miserably, defensively, and perhaps bewilderedly. "Her ladyship—" faltered the attendant. “Cheveney!” she repeated.
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