“Tell me,” she insisted, “why you look like that. And she would have rushed to him, if she had not been forcibly withheld by her son. It did seem in so many ways exactly what Ramage said it was—the sensible thing to do. “Perhaps for me,” she added, with a sudden wistful look out of the bare high window, “a night of beginnings. ‘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.
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