“I have hurt my father,” she said; “I have hurt my aunt. ‘If you did not want me to talk of it,’ she told him with characteristic insouciance, ‘you should not have mentioned the matter to me. The calvacade was now put slowly in motion. Part of his head was swathed in linen bandages. An acute sense of living was in her veins, even the taste of her wine seemed magical. She had just managed to reach it, grabbing for the handle, when the enemy’s cracked command halted her.
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