Sir John waved her back. “—and your aunt—” For a time he searched for the mot juste. He found the door ajar, and, to his surprise, perceived little Winifred seated at a table, busily engaged in tracing some design upon a sheet of paper. But one must disguise oneself. For a stunned moment, Emile did not speak. Their soft, voluptuous bodies wove among each other to the faint notes of a lyre. He was twenty-nine at the time, practically an old man.
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