She did not enter the cabin at once, but paused on the threshold and stared at the silent, recumbent figure in the bunk. “In a sort of beautiful garden-close—wearing lovely dresses and picking beautiful flowers?” “Ah! If one could!” “While those other girls trudge to business and those other women let lodgings. “You were really at Moulton House,” she exclaimed penitently. Presently the odour of burnt powder mingled agreeably with that of the incense. I should have thought my note cleared up everything. It was not only Leonardo who had instilled in her this distrust of men. You’re all such good cooks.
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