“What have I done, Miss Pellissier?” he pleaded. She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. Then she passed from the room on the arm of General Lord Charvill, chatting animatedly to him. He's an interpretative genius, if there ever was one.
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