“I wonder,” he said, “if women do know things by instinct? I have my doubts about feminine instinct. Nor was this impression removed as he stole a glance at Mrs. Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness.
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