‘Do not think—’ he panted, ‘that I am finished—with you, mademoiselle. Never had he corrected her with hand or whip, the ring in his voice had always been sufficient to cower her. To tell you the truth, he spoke to me very seriously upon the subject. You didn’t even put the twelve words. By following her he had discovered her secret nook in the rocks. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. He had chosen his time well.
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