‘You see now how dangerous it is to play this lone hand. Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon. “Well,” she said. "Do you compare your love—a love which all may purchase—with hers? No one has ever loved me. The knife is at my breast. "What's the matter?" he cried.
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