‘Pardon, milor’,’ said Valade, ‘but Monsieur Charvill, he was not at fault. A slight rain fell at the time; and a few leaves, caught by the eddies, whirled around. The joy of being loved thrilled her as nothing before had ever done, a curious abstract joy which had nothing in it at that moment of regret or even pity. Hill lost a little of his truculency.
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