The boy she had loved was gone. I'm used to insult as I am to misfortune, and am grown callous to both; but I'm not used to compassion, and know not how to take it. Winifred, you are deceived in me. ” John introduced her to couple after couple, a dizzying array of new people that she could not catalogue in her memory quickly enough. ‘Why do you think I told you about the portrait? I’d not seen it, of course, but I’d seen Miss Mary just before she got married, which is when it was painted.
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