“I don’t see why not,” he answered. There was no one else in the doorway. She recoiled. Did she suppose him a possible pretender to her daughter’s hand? The girl—Dorothée, if memory served—was clearly marriageable, but he imagined most of these unhappy exiles were all but penniless. Mr. Mr. She would be enduing this chap with attributes he did not possess, clothing him in fictional ruffles. Few approached the émigrés directly, preferring to stare covertly from behind their fans, while pretending to admire the simple elegance of Lady Bicknacre’s neo-classical refurbishments. But then you're an adopted son, and that makes all the difference. " The spinster's face actually became warm.
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