” “Except,” said Constance, surveying her work with her head on one side, “to keep the matches from the litter. He saw rifts in clouds—sunshine. They were ingenious disguises of gilt paper destructively gummed, it would seem, to Ann Veronicas’ best dancing-slippers. She often found herself absorbed by watching the tall grass undulate from the cave’s central doorway as solitary hunters prowled for buffalo and stag on the plain. Her usual dignified reserve had availed her nothing.
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