The oblique ruddy lighting distorted them oddly, made queer bars and patches of shadow upon their clothes. ‘Because,’ said Lady Bicknacre in the confidential manner of all matrons when passing on a tidbit of scandal, ‘Nicholas married against his father’s wishes and ran away. Who could say that the two weren't in collusion? When a chap like Spurlock jumped the traces, cherchez la femme, every time. They proved all sorts of things perhaps, but they were thick, unequal, pitiful pieces of work.
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