Raven locks fell to her shoulders from under the feathered beaver hat, and curled away down her back. He recoiled from the sting. She rose from her chair, and began walking up and down the room restlessly. ‘But we—mon mari and myself—we have the bonne chance. You didn’t even put the twelve words. I'll knock off at tea. There were one or two bitter moments in his life when he had been made to feel that gentility laid on with a brush may sometimes crack and show weak places—that deportment and breeding are after all things apart.
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