"Can't you guess?" returned Winifred, throwing her arms about her neck. “Oh, that. In Paris, in July, a raging mob had stormed the Bastille, provoking circumspect aristocrats to uproot themselves and take refuge abroad. There, in a little tea and sweetstuff shop, she bought and consumed slowly and absent-mindedly the insufficient nourishment that is natural to her sex on such occasions. Then to the Golden Ball, in the same street. As she did so the preparation-room door opened behind her. Mr. .
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