‘Though we might have done, if a certain addlepated clothhead hadn’t let her get away. I’ll give you grandpére!’ ‘But milor’—’ ‘Pardon!’ No longer master of his actions, the general lurched forward, waving his cane. She pulled his shirt from its tucked belted state and snaked her hands around his waist. In this way, more than a month passed over. There was an air of repressed gaiety in her actions: the sense of freedom had returned; her heart was empty again. Wild on his guard against an assassin.
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