And she’s pluck to the backbone. “No. She must have the capability to learn magic, to learn the enchantments that add to her power. And the fact that it was dressed in riding gear had fooled her into thinking it was her own image. Sebastian rose from the tomb. How she had hated it!… All these mumblings which were never explained, which carried no more sense to her brain than they would have carried to Old Morgan's swearing parrot. Paris looms behind—a tragedy of strange recollections—here she emerges Phœnix-like, subtly developed, a flawless woman, beautiful, self-reliant, witty, a woman with the strange gift of making all others beside her seem plain or vulgar. "But don't wait for me, Sir Cecil.
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