Maggot, that I'm engaged," said Kneebone, a little disconcerted. The evenings were beginning to draw out, and it would not be dark for an hour. ‘One of your countrymen, perhaps?’ The girl clammed up, the moon of her white face staring up at him in the darkness. His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love. ‘But we—mon mari and myself—we have the bonne chance. You're on the way to big things.
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