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 "I don't think I have, perhaps," said Esmée thoughtfully, under the returning influence of Italy. "Perhaps I rather like twirling."

"Ye-es," said Mrs. Windermere, leaning back in her chair. Her lustrous eyes looked out mournfully, contentedly, from under pouchy lids, through the long fringes of her hat; her retroussé nose was powdered delicately mauve, the very moist lips had a way of contracting quickly in the middle of a sentence in an un-puglike effort to retain the saliva. Curly bunches of grey hair lay against her cheeks, a string of Roman pearls was twisted several times round her plump throat; her furs were slung across her bosom and one shoulder; her every movement diffused an odour of Violet de Parme. She had not removed her gloves, and opulent rolls of white kid encircled wrist and forearm; her sleeves fell back from the elbow. She was an orthodox London edition of her Italian self.

"Twirling," she repeated, narrowing her eyes. She looked round the mild, bright, crowded room, rustling with femininity, with