“You might at least,” she murmured, “have invented a more romantic reason. Ann Veronica had a number of fragmentary impressions of Alice strangely transfigured in bridal raiment. It’s an emerald. The image in the glass was not clear, for the light was not bright enough to see properly, but the shadows of her riding habit and the hat with its waving plumes framed a countenance that gazed serenely back at her out of long-lashed blue eyes.
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