’ ‘I presume you were not with her in France?’ Kimble stared. Love and companionship. Mr. Did she suppose him a possible pretender to her daughter’s hand? The girl—Dorothée, if memory served—was clearly marriageable, but he imagined most of these unhappy exiles were all but penniless. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. He barely shook the rose petals from her hair.
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