We WERE thieves. Monsieur Charvill, he is also my cousin. His face was wreathed in smiles, his beringed hand was cordially outstretched. She even thought that perhaps she might come to love him, in spite of that faint indefinable flavor of absurdity that pervaded his courtly bearing. Everything was fresh and bright, from the kindly manners of the Frutigen cobbler, who hammered mountain nails into her boots, to the unfamiliar wild flowers that spangled the wayside. “He’s got almost to like it.
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