The fibre of his soul had to be tested, queerly, to make him worthy of you. She was not afraid of violence, but she was afraid of something mean, some secondary kind of force. ‘You!’ ‘Yes, it is I, mademoiselle,’ he continued in his own tongue. ’ ‘Have no fear. Every one took him for the millionaire, and he had lost his head about me. And experience was slow in coming.
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