Then she passed from the room on the arm of General Lord Charvill, chatting animatedly to him. His salvation—if there was to be any—lay in her ignorance of life. The white haze of poison clouded her eyes. A dark mass of wreckage, over which hung a slight mist of vapour, lay half in the ditch, half across the hedge, close under a tree from the trunk of which the bark had been torn and stripped. The fireplace was at the other end, with the sheeted shapes of two sofas either side.
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