‘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. He felt her observance and warmed to it. Her fingers clutched the side of the door as though to steady herself. You know nothing of life, nothing of its dangers, nothing of its possibilities. For a long time to come that would naturally be the theme of any story he undertook to write. ” She looked at him quizzically and shrugged.
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