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HE next morning Philippa lay in her elaborate bed with the violet hangings, and ruminated. She was charming in a white silk negligée, her yellow hair softly framing the interesting pallor of her face and the not unbecoming lustre of her weary, sleep-hungry eyes. She was conscious of it, but was too miserable to feel satisfied. For the first time in her life she admitted a doubt of her talent as a diplomat, and a dawn of real conditions vaguely lighted her mind. She realized that her conceit, her belief in her own social invulnerability, had led her into a terrible impasse.

She twisted uncomfortably and drew the bed-clothes round her as she contemplated the situation. She strove to collect her wits and think clearly; but memories of the previous day rose suddenly before her, visioned with insistent ter-
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