The spinster saw herself growing warm again in the morning sunshine of youth —a flaring ember before the hearth grew cold. I will remember them, Sebastian, along with my mother and father, and all the others I came to love and lose. Only she is not Madame Valade at all. At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. They seed beyond all reason.
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