It had ceased to beat. The doctor walked over to the bed, folded his arms across his chest and stared down into the unabashed eyes of his patient. Her cheeks were aflame. “Promise me that you’ll never tell another living soul, John. I am not of the canaille, but a bourgeois. Her features were still slightly marked by the disorder alluded to in the description of her as a child,—but that was the only drawback to her beauty. ‘She knows them.
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