“The one who used to live at Lyndmore. But perhaps he was right not to tell you the truth. As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back. She has never done a really ignoble thing that I know of— never. The Dawn Pearl; how well they had named her! The pearl without price—his and not his! He took her arm and drew it under his; and together they went down the veranda steps. 3.
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