The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. She hadn't measured up; she had been stupid; she hadn't known how to make love. Chapter Two ‘Our French friends are beginning to form quite a little coterie,’ remarked Gerald, covertly studying the group gathered in an alcove at the other side of Lady Bicknacre’s ballroom. ‘You can’t go to England. The word "criticism" had no concrete meaning to her then; no more than "compromise. He cherished her.
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