Supper was spaghetti and Italian sausage that night. There was the same airy grace of movement, the same deep brown hair and alabaster skin. The vast mirrored chamber, with its four little square window bays, two either side of the large raised dais that led to the French doors, was very full of company for the start of the Little Season. “There’s another instinct, too,” he went on, “in a state of suppression, unless I’m very much mistaken; a child-expelling instinct.
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