He started a dozen stories, but they all ended in the waste-basket. The image in the glass was not clear, for the light was not bright enough to see properly, but the shadows of her riding habit and the hat with its waving plumes framed a countenance that gazed serenely back at her out of long-lashed blue eyes. The latter haughtily returned his salutation, and flung himself, as if exhausted, into a chair. . She slipped past the servants, her soft roe-skin shoes unheard on the old stone.
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