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. I suppose I believe in God. "Is it poison?" she asked. There was a murmur or two among the watchers on the bench, but no one ventured to intervene again. I’m fine. “You are too good for me,” she said in a low voice.
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