‘Never fear, my love. Brendon told him the name of a distant restaurant and sprang in by her side. A species of vertigo seized him. Not all of us, but some of us. Then he took the pulse. 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. Dear me, what a difference it has made! No one would ever think that we were sisters. T.
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