" "How so?" inquired Winifred. Above the work-table was a drop-light—kerosene. It was a precious thing, a beautiful cabochon—do you know what that is?” “What’s a cabochon?” “It’s a precious jewel that doesn’t have facets yet. An acute sense of living was in her veins, even the taste of her wine seemed magical. "Ay. It was her foster brother Mike, on his way to the bathroom. “The plain common-sense of the case,” he said, “is that we can’t possibly be lovers in the ordinary sense.
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