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Edgeworth Bess wore a scarlet tabby negligée,—a sort of undress, or sack, then much in vogue,—which suited her to admiration, and upon her head had what was called a fly-cap, with richly-laced lappets. ‘Not another caller will I receive this day. She was perfectly aware that the boy had gotten some sort of bug in his craw over her despite her sloppy, strange appearance. Nothing ensued. I’m not discussing Shakespeare. From the first of these alighted Thames, or, as he must now be styled, the Marquis de Chatillon. She was not a reversion to type, which intimates the primordial; she suggested rather the incarnation of some goddess of the South Seas. It began in the eyes and spread to the lips: warm, embracing, even fatherly.
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