‘Very well, mademoiselle, so be it,’ he snapped. But it was extraordinary what seemingly irrelevant things could restore her to the thought of Capes again. The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it. The comtesse always felt Madame Valade to be not of her class, of course. And here against a wall were the plumtrees. ’ She shrugged.
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