‘Don’t be too sure,’ responded Major Gerald Alderley on a dry note. He had not taken many steps when he perceived Quilt Arnold in the upper gallery, with a lamp in his hand. The hour for which, presumably, she had been created was drawing nigh. Flesh and blood, vivid, alluring; she was no longer the symbol, therefore she had become, as in the twinkling of an eye, an utter stranger. Her husband was prouder of her every day. After all, you may easily come to fetch Mrs Ibstock when you need her.
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