Gay, was a stout, good-looking, good-humoured man, about thirty-six, with a dark complexion, an oval face, fine black eyes, full of fire and sensibility, and twinkling with roguish humour—an expression fully borne out by the mouth, which had a very shrewd and sarcastic curl. It’s my other side of the moon. “My word holds,” she said. How I wish I might meet this delightful mystery lady of yours. They drove rapidly through the emptying streets. You have changed from the veriest butterfly to a woman—you wear different clothes, you have the air of another world. Who’s for a rubber of whist?” Ennison made so many mistakes that he was glad to cut out early in the evening. I don’t think you understand.
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