‘But we—mon mari and myself—we have the bonne chance. . Books were always sliding and slipping, clumsy objects to hold. The touch of his lips neither thrilled nor alarmed her, because the eyes that looked into hers were clean. ‘I am perfectly devoted to him, as well he knows. And so gentle as the poor creature is, when she's not in her wild fits—it would melt a heart of stone to see her.
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