At the door through which she had entered the room stood the so-called Monsieur Valade. She is the wife now of another man. Your career at the bar had given you a command of language, also a self-control not vouchsafed to us ordinary mortals. It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections. The manager tells me that you are an American. And through it all, like a golden thread on a piece of tapestry, weaving in and out of the patterns, the unspoken longing for love. She felt it would save explanations if she did not state she had left her home and was looking for employment. Just this? Parbleu, did he think this was enough? She did not wish to marry him—at least, not just because he was an Englishman. I want him immediately, so you can send Frith with my phaeton if you like. She no longer felt sick or dizzy, her muscles returned to a relaxed, supple state.
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