The emerald wings, slashed with scarlet and yellow, wheeling and swooping about her head, there among the wild plantain. “She can’t go now. Somewhere you may stumble upon a clew to his identity. 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. A detective will be here in a few moments to make inquiries into this affair. He smiled grandly; she could feel the radiance of his approval from across the wedding table.
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