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‘Jacques, where are you hurt?’ But as she asked the question, she saw the wound. Gay, was a stout, good-looking, good-humoured man, about thirty-six, with a dark complexion, an oval face, fine black eyes, full of fire and sensibility, and twinkling with roguish humour—an expression fully borne out by the mouth, which had a very shrewd and sarcastic curl. I’ll mention it. Yet an indiscriminating, wrong-headed world gave such fellows all sorts of distinctions. You can pay me when we return. "We may trust him," he added in a whisper; "he is a staunch friend of the good cause.
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