The day had become suddenly overcast. But he wrote on. “It is a pity that as nations we are not more friendly. As soon as she noticed the stranger, she honoured him with an extremely impudent stare, and scarcely endeavoured to disguise the admiration with which his good looks impressed her. As a matter of fact I have been waiting for you. She meant to leave anyway, or so she would tell herself later. The winter had turned sea and sky to a wet gray. She slipped past the servants, her soft roe-skin shoes unheard on the old stone. How could you draw the curtain aside which hides the great and holy places of life—you, who have never loved?” “You have become French to the core,” she murmured. There was now no honest way of warning Taber that the net had been drawn.
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