“You know,” he went on, “this doesn’t seem to me to end anything. She became aware of the modelling of his ear, of the muscles of his neck and the textures of the hair that came off his brow, the soft minute curve of eyelid that she could just see beyond his brow; she perceived all these familiar objects as though they were acutely beautiful things. That’s all. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. It warms me, and lights me, and fills my world with flowers. He regretted— more deeply than he could say—the occurrence of this evening. "Kidnapped, and sent to France by one uncle, it was my lot to fall into the hands of another,—my father's own brother, the Marshal Gaucher de Chatillon; to whom, and to the Cardinal Dubois, I owed all my good fortune. ” “Why not?” she asked quietly.
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