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Every inch of the house felt safe to her, small and welcoming. “Why do you hate me again, my love?” He seemed to brighten, feeding upon the intensity of her emotion. “Stop it!. ’ ‘As we see. But it's French manners, I suppose. If he adhered to this policy—to keep away from her inconspicuously—she would forget the name by night, and to-morrow even the bearer of it would sink below the level of recollection. “No, no,” she cried.
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