She comprehends what we're about. The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. The gong will go at seven-thirty. 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. ‘You are a born rebel, ma’am, and I can see now where she gets it from. You don’t know what you’re saying, and I hope you never will. But he may remain with you if he pleases: I sha'n't hinder him.
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