The gallant woollen-draper was now in his thirty-sixth year. The doll she had never owned, the cat and the dog that had never been hers: here they were, strangely incorporated in this sleeping man. Time was moving so fast, she could no longer count the days since Gosse had come to her with his preposterous suggestion at the Coq d’Or, where they were staying and where he had robbed her and left her and Martha to their fate. At the end of two long lines of foot-guards stood the cart with a powerful black horse harnessed to it.
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