Her impressions of this cardinal ceremony were rich and confused, complicated by a quite transitory passion that awakened no reciprocal fire for a fat curly headed cousin in black velveteen and a lace collar, who assisted as a page. She was quite oblivious to the sensation she had created. The tree-lined streets were silent except for the sporadic revving of glass packs down Church Avenue. On the floor was a handkerchief, a little morsel of lace. Then they deliberated whether Bernard Shaw ought to go into Parliament. ‘Well, that depends.
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