” Sir John smiled. He did not speak for a moment. From this perturbed state he was roused by thoughts of his mother, and fancying he heard her gentle voice urging him on to fresh exertion, he started up. She sat on the edge of the bed overwhelmed, the roses cradled in her arms. Did she suppose him a possible pretender to her daughter’s hand? The girl—Dorothée, if memory served—was clearly marriageable, but he imagined most of these unhappy exiles were all but penniless. ‘She is a maid only, and I do not believe she has married Emile.
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