‘Parbleu,’ she uttered indignantly. Outside the door stood one of the soldiers. Instinct had forced her to create something out of rags to satisfy a mysterious craving. Wood's favourite sitting-room, and her image was so intimately associated with it, neither the carpenter nor his daughter could muster courage to enter it before. She understood. She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances.
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