Monsieur Charvill, he is also my cousin. You did not see me, I know. We two just love each other—the real, identical other—all the time. Or he would find something—a wave in her hair, a little line in the contour of her brow or neck, that made an exquisite discovery. The young rascal had learnt from some of the women-servants that Lady Trafford was from home, and was in the very act of making off when I got down stairs. It’s not you—not a bit.
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