You know they say, as, indeed, I have just quoted already, that all bad poetry is written in a state of emotion, but I have no doubt that this is true of bad offers of marriage. If you talk of your faults, I shall talk of your splendors. Oh, and only look at those stains,’ cried Miss Froxfield, gesturing at the blood on the ruffles to the sleeves of Melusine’s riding-habit, and on the chemise she wore under it. You can pull it over on everybody else, Lucy, but not on me. He has no imagination, no real generosity. ’ ‘Excellent,’ Gerald had approved.
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