“Oh God!” she cried, “Oh God!” and flung aside her opera-cloak, and for a time walked about the room—a Corsair’s bride at a crisis of emotion. Inexplicably there flashed into vision the Chinese wedding procession in the narrow, twisted streets of the city, that first day: the gorgeous palanquin, the tomtoms, the weird music, the ribald, jeering mob that trailed along behind. He was in evening dress: swallow-tailed coat and white tie. A curious silence ensued. "You are my prisoner. The books slid from her arms and fluttered to the floor. Seeing the footman about to follow her in, Gerald clamped a hand onto his shoulder. But even you cannot alter her character. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. And the grotesquest fact was that she did not so much loathe, as experience with a quite critical condemnation this strange sensation of being kissed. Tea in the laboratory was a sort of suffragette reception.
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