"Pardon me if I run away. I've forgotten a note I meant to send to poor
little Theresa Bilson.--I must let Laura have it at once, or she mayn't
catch the postman," she said with equal rapidity and apparent
inconsequence.
As Felicia Verity passed out into the hall, at one end of the avenue of
stumpy pillars, Carteret came in at the other end through the garden
door. He halted a moment, dazzled by the warmth and light within after
the clair-obscure of the frosty dusk without, and looked round the room
before recognizing the identity of its remaining occupant. Then:
"Ah! you--dear witch," he said. "So you're home. And what of your drive?"
Damaris turned round, all of a piece. Her hands, white against the black,
the fingers slightly apart, still pressed back the skirt of her dress as
though saving it from the fire scorch, in quaintly careful childish
fashion. Her complexion was that of a child too, in its soft brightness.
And the wonder of her great eyes fairly challenged Carteret's wits.
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