‘You must think me a fool, mademoiselle. He wanted to put on his overcoat and come after you and look for you—in London. He leaned towards her as though anxious to see more of her face than that faint delicate profile gleaming like marble in the uncertain light. ” He looked at her with white, set face. It isn’t because you’re good, but because I may be rotten bad; and there’s something—something living and understanding in you. E.
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