’ Then she came closer and put her hand on his chest so that it rested on the braid that decorated his scarlet coat. Never for a moment had violence come between these two since long ago he had, in spite of her mother’s protest in the background, carried her kicking and squalling to the nursery for some forgotten crime. His tongue was hot. His countenance was pale as death, but not a muscle quivered; nor did he betray the slightest appearance of fear. She looked, Dorothée said, just as she always looks.
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