It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative. I was not even sure whether it was loaded. Rummage, my boy, do. ‘She? Sa femme? That is the game then? That she could dare to take my place, that salope. Had she said the words aloud? He pulled her close and she nuzzled her head on his chest. And this clear-visioned child had comprehended that only half the rogues were really ill. There were one or two bitter moments in his life when he had been made to feel that gentility laid on with a brush may sometimes crack and show weak places—that deportment and breeding are after all things apart. “My mind is full of confused stuff,” he said at length. So he's come around, then? That's fine. Otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author's words and intent.
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