He could remember when women laid away their gowns in lavender—as this girl's mother had. “Shopman. She had a feeling at his departure as of an immense cavity, of something enormously gone; she could not tell whether it was infinite regret or infinite relief. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. ‘Don’t involve me in your lover’s tiff. The funeral, it has just been said, took place on that day. “Do YOU go across the Park?” “Not usually.
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