"My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. She had neither the semi-boisterousness of the average American girl nor the chilling insolence of the English. Then began expostulations, preluded by a telegram and headed by her aunt. “You’re so cute. But, by Jove! you are fierce! You are like those Roman women who carry stilettos in their hair. ‘It looked to me as if he was playing games with Madame Valade,’ Lucilla said frankly. Mr.
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