‘Laisse-moi,’ she threw at him, her brief attack of sobs already ended, although the trace of tears on her cheeks bore witness to its sincerity. The thin stream of blood on which her eyes were fastened with a nameless horror reached almost to her feet. ‘Dolt! Muttonheaded oaf! Why the deuce couldn’t he have sent you home?’ Valade cut in at that. With a strong tendency to satire, but without a particle of malice or ill-nature in its display.
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