Who’s for a rubber of whist?” Ennison made so many mistakes that he was glad to cut out early in the evening. “Good,” he said, as he watched the colour come back to her cheeks. It seemed incredible that she and her aunt were, indeed, creatures of the same blood, only by a birth or so different beings, and part of that same broad interlacing stream of human life that has invented the fauns and nymphs, Astarte, Aphrodite, Freya, and all the twining beauty of the gods. “It is unimportant,” she said.
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