Thunder rumbled behind the manicured hills. The comtesse always felt Madame Valade to be not of her class, of course. The chromatic fiction with which he relieved his mind glanced but slightly at this aspect of life, and never with any quality of guidance. Her voice shook, her eyes were very soft and melting. “I won’t pretend,” he said, “that this is an accident. ’ ‘And your precious vicomte didn’t wish for the English one,’ said Charvill, acid in his voice.
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