Then her fingers moved. Then as she drew nearer paint showed upon her face, and a harsh purpose behind the quiet expression of her open countenance, and a sort of unreality in her splendor betrayed itself for which Ann Veronica could not recall the right word—a word, half understood, that lurked and hid in her mind, the word “meretricious. Stanley was inclined to think the censorship should be extended to the supply of what he styled latter-day fiction; good wholesome stories were being ousted, he said, by “vicious, corrupting stuff” that “left a bad taste in the mouth. “Always planning for death. "Captain Darren," he added, sternly, "you shall hear from me. ‘You mean I should give myself a dressingdown? Very well. Wood," she continued, in an authoritative tone, seeing her husband ready to depart, "one word before you set out. Flattened flowers aren’t for the likes of us. I thought it would be magnificent to have a great house in Paris, and more money than any other woman. “Don’t you have a wife? Where are your children?” She asked.
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