The wine was sweetened with cinnamon and cloves and rare edible flowers, which her father had instructed her not to drink excessively of. The girl stood with her hands behind her back, sulky, resolute, and intelligent, a strand of her black hair over one eye and looking more than usually delicate-featured, and more than ever like an obdurate child. I don’t mind it. It isn’t such fun as it seems. “Good evening, Dorling,” he said. This farewell had been particularly distasteful to him.
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