The light was poor, so that she saw their gleaming faces dimly and indistinctly. Spurling, who had been hastily compounding another bowl of punch. It feels like too much gold-dust clutched in one’s hand. Was that it? Had she clothed this unhappy young man with glamour? Or was it because he was so alone? She could not get through the husks to the kernel of what really actuated her.
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