‘Mad as hatters!’ ‘It is you who is mad,’ mademoiselle told him crossly. The latter looked very pale, either from the effect of his wound, which was not yet entirely healed, or from suppressed emotion,—partly, perhaps, from both causes,—and wore his left arm in a sling. She breathed deeply of the starch of his shirt. ‘Troops?’ ‘Go, man,’ urged the major in an undervoice.
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