’ ‘Pray don’t,’ begged Mrs Sindlesham, one eye on the general’s embattled features. She sat on the edge of the bed —the wardress was too busy with the flood of arrivals that day to discover that she had it down—and her skin was shivering from the contact of these garments. A skeleton was propped against the mantelpiece. I hate what I am. Vanity was a vice not just to be deprecated, but effectively strangled at birth. I can’t afford to get behind.
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