‘Oh, Marthe,’ she groaned, using in her accustomed way the French version of her nurse’s name, ‘that pig is going to monsieur le baron. Sheppard, meekly. No wonder that Trenchard, as he gazed at this fearful being, should have some misgivings cross him. Her eyebrows were lifted in expostulation. The entire city seemed to exist for beauty and art alone.
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