Her eyes filled as she thought of him, the image of his laughing countenance coming into her mind, to be swiftly followed by a vision of the blood running from his cut hand. She looked, Dorothée said, just as she always looks. Nobody can trust you. The destroying angel hurried by, shrouded in his gloomiest apparel. His own peculiar genius—a miracle key to the hidden things in men's souls—had given him this immediate and astonishing illumination. She gathered up the chain, revealing a locket which had lain hidden in her bosom.
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