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“Do you know,” she said, “that every one is remarking how ill you look. ” He dropped his eye-glass with a clatter. Papillon would have broken him down; anything tender would have sapped his will; and like as not he would have left the stool and rushed into the night. It was a moment or two before Gerald realised that he could feel the fluttering of her pulse beneath the light touch he had on her wrist, and that her fingers were trembling in his. As though it was indelicate—it’s just a sort of shyness. They talked for the better part of an hour, and at last walked together to the junction of highroad and the bridle-path. They stood for a moment in the passage and listened. She had a political cartoon from 1785 that showed a tall man in a cape, a caricature of a French politico that looked suspiciously like him. Even an unlikely episode such as this could not be ignored.

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