Wood, glancing angrily at her husband. The Frenchman had moved back into Piccadilly from Down Street, at which the lad following him had immediately sauntered away a yard or two. I was the last on board. She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone. Heard voices. The fact itself is regrettable enough—regrettable, I fear, is quite an inadequate word.
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