Before she put on her sun-helmet, she paused before the mirror. Her glance, absorbing the gilt letters and their significance, communicated to her poised body a species of paralysis. The flowers and turf, a wild strawberry, a rare butterfly, and suchlike little intimate things had become more interesting than mountains. “I believe you are quite right so far as regards the present, at any rate,” someone remarked, from the depths of an easy chair. Jack, whose back was towards it, did not see it; but he heard, from the pitying exclamations of the crowd, that it was in view.
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