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He held down the light, and a moment afterwards beckoned, with a blanched cheek, to Rowland. But, finding the cellar-door open, concluded he had got out that way. “Women are mocked,” she said. He caressed her tenderly, with no trace of the Sebastian who had previously knocked her off her feet with a slap across the mouth. Paris looms behind—a tragedy of strange recollections—here she emerges Phœnix-like, subtly developed, a flawless woman, beautiful, self-reliant, witty, a woman with the strange gift of making all others beside her seem plain or vulgar.
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