The idea that he held in his arms the girl whom he had once so passionately loved, and for whom he still retained an ardent but hopeless attachment, almost overcame him. ‘Who, the émigrés?’ ‘Do I speak of the English, imbecile? Certainly the émigrés. And if the woman is not a rival, she must be—yes, that must be it. Then he threw the letter at me. Courtlaw sat with folded arms. My goodness gracious.
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