Then she slowly straightened, releasing him. 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. Here he was hotly pursued. She felt herself falling, her bile rising in her 61 throat, the cold wind spinning around her like vertigo. But I don’t wish to hear that abomination on her lips again.
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