A hazy face appeared through the fog of sleep, pale and thin and looming. A florid-looking young woman rose up and accosted him eagerly. Her features were still slightly marked by the disorder alluded to in the description of her as a child,—but that was the only drawback to her beauty. “I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice. There is something sensual in the thought of lotus flowers. She knew that the stairs they had to negotiate to the vestry were extremely narrow, and she had made her plans.
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