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. He embraced her, kissing her cheek, then her neck. John knew better. That might happen on her birthday—in August. The curve of his shoulders, the very angle of his feet, expressed relief at her apparent obedience.
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