Now I do. I can’t imagine Londoners—particularly interested in me. When Sheila was in a good mood, one almost enjoyed her. Gosse had come to Blaye, so he had said, feeling it his duty as the vicomte’s erstwhile secretary to deliver the fateful tidings, bringing with him one of the servant girls, Yolande, who had also escaped the fury of the mob. ‘I am nine-and-twenty,’ he answered. Her safety lay in pretense—that what she saw was as a tale twice told.
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