She recoiled. “Allow me,” the doctor said, “to give you a word of advice, Miss Pellissier. “I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice. ‘I don’t think you need do that, Melusine—if I may call you so. Byrom,—a poet of whom his native town, Manchester, may be justly proud; and his features and figure have been preserved by the most illustrious of his companions on the present occasion,—Hogarth,—in the levée in the "Rake's Progress," and in "Southwark Fair. Lucy could see her striding down a Parisian catwalk quite easily. Why shouldn’t we be martyrs? There’s nothing else for most of us, anyhow. It was a society column about the richest men in the world and their lavish parties.
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