There are so many things I want to tell you, and they stand on such different levels, that the effect is necessarily confusing and discordant, and I find myself doubting if I am really giving you the thread of emotion that should run through all this letter. Women are hypocrites to the last—true only to themselves. I was ready to wager that your name would have marched with one of them. “Anna,” she cried, “you must believe me. But this was a vicomte’s sister. “A joke! Sir John, if you had presented yourself here an hour ago we should have greeted you in pained silence. ’ ‘Why should Gérard care?’ sneered Gosse. You can do it, if you will. The characters of the youthful occupants of the room might be detected in every article it contained. ‘Jacques, where are you hurt?’ But as she asked the question, she saw the wound. “Don’t you know, child, that this is torture for me? What in God’s name more can you have to tell me?” Her face had become almost like a marble image.
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