Did she suppose him a possible pretender to her daughter’s hand? The girl—Dorothée, if memory served—was clearly marriageable, but he imagined most of these unhappy exiles were all but penniless. It was a gorgeous May evening, the air redolent with the soapy purple scents of hyacinth and lilac. I am sorry that I do not know any one in London. What! mum still.
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