‘It is, you understand, that Monsieur Charvill did not—how do you say in English?—having an eye to an eye—’ ‘Didn’t see eye to eye with the Vicomte Valade? That I can well believe. Our ideal had fallen. There it is. Her fanciful imagination no longer drew pictures of the aunt in the doorway of a wooden house, her arms extended in welcome. It had not tasted good since 1350. He returned to attend the funeral. ‘You give me an excellent excuse to have in the Madeira,’ said his hostess, reaching for a silver hand bell and setting it pealing.
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