Ann Veronica could at the same time ask herself what this queer old gentleman could have meant by speaking to her, and know—know in general terms, at least—what that accosting signified. They don’t count, and I don’t care. Shari smiled and Mike whispered to her. Wood, furiously. Already she missed all of her fine things, her linens and leather bound books. She crouched beneath a stump, her extremities twitching as the sun set orange and blue beyond the lace of iron-black trees. He addressed her by that title, and something in the tone disturbed her. I have been very foolish, but it is over. Yet there was nothing for her to do. ‘We will converse in your own tongue,’ he said in French as he led her away. Immediately behind this individual, came a pale, poverty-stricken woman, whose forlorn aspect contrasted strongly with his plump and comfortable physiognomy.
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