His feet would have the firm texture of his hands. "It's an odd-shaped one," rejoined Kneebone, examining it attentively. One morning he caught her hand suddenly and kissed it. Immediately the "boy" went forth with his paper lantern, repeating a cry as he ran—warning to clear the way. That world of fine printed cambrics and escorted maidens, of delicate secondary meanings and refined allusiveness, presented itself to her imagination with the brightness of a lost paradise, as indeed for many women it is a lost paradise.
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