I’m a Socialist, Miss Stanley. ‘Then let her keep her Frenchified titles to herself. Jack Kimble stiffened, looking at his interrogator with wary anger in his face. A kind but hard looking female officer named Rose took her into a room and sat her down at a small wooden table. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget. But the vicomte has said that his sister may remain, but that the daughter must go.
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