His stories had enchanted her, even if in some deep corner of her heart she guessed they were not entirely true. ’ ‘A French ghost?’ ‘Well, it ain’t a rat this time, Major, I can promise you that,’ Pottiswick had rejoined, his tone affronted. “Nice sleeve,” she said, and came to his hand and kissed it. When first brought under consideration, she was a miserable and forlorn object; squalid in attire, haggard in looks, and emaciated in frame.
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