It would not have been for her an anomaly to read a love story in which there were no kisses. Of course Nicholas was bound to give her a French name. In the retrospect she was amazed to think how things had gone to pieces, for at the outset she had been quite prepared to go home again upon terms. Anything. His hug became an embrace. Valade, who was standing by her chair, glancing around the packed pink-papered saloon with a heavy frown on his face, was a thickset man of coarse, reddened feature, with a discontented air.
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