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She hung about his chair, followed him to the door, touched his sleeve timidly, all the while striving to pronounce the words which refused to rise to her tongue. “There are a good many Whites in London. ‘Valade, if you don’t mind. ‘But we—mon mari and myself—we have the bonne chance. But he had now lost the precise spot; and thinking he had examined the drain, turned his attention to another quarter. She had looked forward to an explanation. That is what terrified her: the consciousness that nothing in her life would be continuous, that she would no sooner form friendships (like the present) than relentless fate would thrust her into a new circle.
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