"He must be somewhere hereabouts," cried one of the horsemen, dismounting. 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. Full as she was of him, it felt good to shower her kill out of her hair. She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out. .
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