She backed away, amazed as the thing buzzed loudly in the center of the room. His first wife. The vast mirrored chamber, with its four little square window bays, two either side of the large raised dais that led to the French doors, was very full of company for the start of the Little Season. She let them fall and sped to the companion, where she stood for a moment, the moonlight giving her a celestial touch. Her complexion was wan and faded, except where it was tinged by a slight hectic flush, that made the want of colour more palpable; her eyes were large and black, but heavy and lustreless; her cheeks sunken; her frame emaciated; her dark hair thickly scattered with gray. Neither combatant could use his sword; and in strength the fugitive was evidently superior to his antagonist. He's an interpretative genius, if there ever was one.
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