She rehearsed the story of her forlorn long lost mother in her head, what she would say to the theorymongers. He had a quick, shrewd, merry eye, and a look in which duplicity was agreeably veiled by good humour. "The Dutchman was right, after all. “I am afraid,” she answered, “that one’s friends can judge only of the externals, and the things which matter, the things inside are realized only by oneself— stop. She declined and finished with a few of her favorite excerpts from Scheherazade.
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