Her spirit awoke in dismay to an affection in ruins, to the immense undignified disaster that had come to them. It seemed to show a want of affection, to be a deliberate and unmerited disregard, to justify the reprisal of being hurt. He himself, middle-aged, steeped in traditions of the City and moneymaking, very ill-skilled in all the lighter graces of life, as he himself well knew, could yet come to her invested with something of the halo of romance by the almost magical powers of an unlimited banking account. My name is Armytage—Lord Ernest Armytage. ‘Tchah! So you’re the whelp’s girl, are you? Suppose you’ve nothing but that villainous French in your tongue. Gwen—I saw Gwen the other day, and the paint’s thicker than ever.
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