On a pallet in one corner lay a pale emaciated female. He could remember when women laid away their gowns in lavender—as this girl's mother had. Relief flooded her. She remembered him as a dull figure, a big man with a belly that was already showing fat under his fine scarlet clothes. As in all things, so his thoughts came to him deliberately. She practiced swaddling on a doll, pretending to pat the head of her imaginary infant boy. “It is possible, mademoiselle,” he said, “that this affair is not yet ended.
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