‘Therefore she cannot be the daughter of Suzanne Valade. She was dressed as English girls do dress for town, without either coquetry or harshness: her collarless blouse confessed a pretty neck, her eyes were bright and steady, and her dark hair waved loosely and graciously over her ears. ‘Gérard, do not go,’ she cried, breathless. You’re tired, of course. They were headed by an athleticlooking, swarthy-featured man, who was armed with a cutlass, which he waved over his head to cheer on his companions.
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