Lead the lad to suppose that he'll be introduced to Lady Trafford. The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. She loved the market, the horses trotting about, the bishops forced to be on the same road with old washer-women, the fools begging for a Florin or a ducat. She had just passed into a little antechamber beyond when she suddenly heard a faint knocking. We hide it bravely, but so it is.
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