" CHAPTER IV. ‘Pardon, milor’,’ said Valade, ‘but Monsieur Charvill, he was not at fault. ” “I am afraid,” she said, preceding him down the narrow stairs, “that I am going to be too busy to have much time for gadding about. She would then hear his feet pounding up the steps and he would burst into whatever room she was sitting in and say, “There she is! My wife! Hiding her beauty from the world!” He would then run to her, grab her book or embroidery and unceremoniously toss them to the floor. There was a young lad ahead of her. Here's a couple in hand. The sound of their strident voices floated upwards, the high nasal note of the predominant Americans, the shrill laughter of girls quick to appreciate the wit of such of their male companions as thought it worth while to be amusing. “So very clear and cold,” she said.
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