Mary Remenham had passed on her every feature to the daughter whose advent had taken her from this world. It was an oldfashioned peasant blouse, white, square necked, and trimmed with lace. ‘I’ll take wine,’ the lady said briefly, turning back instantly to Hilary. That was the only sound he heard. “I am afraid,” she answered, “that one’s friends can judge only of the externals, and the things which matter, the things inside are realized only by oneself— stop.
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