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Then she glanced at the cards again, over which her aunt’s many-ringed hand played, and then at the rather weak, rather plump face that surveyed its operations. It was one of the secret troubles of her mind, this grotesque twist her ideas would sometimes take, as though they rebelled and rioted. As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back. “You go home,” he said, at parting; “you go home. These were his mistresses, Poll Maggot and Edgeworth Bess. I’m a man, and I know what I mean. " "We know it," cried several voices.
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