’ ‘Fiddle,’ scoffed Miss Froxfield. Flattened flowers aren’t for the likes of us. She posed herself before her mirror and surveyed herself with gravely thoughtful, gravely critical, and yet admiring eyes. She could feel her body rebel against her actions, convulsing, so she forced herself to think of her mother in Heaven, her mother's beautiful face, the sun dancing across the rivers of her home. " At this moment, Saint Sepulchre's clock struck six. ‘I just don’t understand you, Gerald.
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