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The terrors and anxieties of the last few months seemed to have fallen from her, to have passed away like an ugly dream, dismissed with a shudder even from the memory. “And aren’t there fees to pay at the Imperial College?” her aunt was saying—a disagreeable question. Her bald head had swollen on her shoulders, puffy with fresh blood that ringed her mouth. “I mean to go to that dance! I meant to reason with you, but you won’t reason. It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. ‘Where did you get that, miss?’ ‘It is the sword of monsieur le major.
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