But still you have told me of my real mother when I thought it was Suzanne Valade. She sat on the edge of the bed —the wardress was too busy with the flood of arrivals that day to discover that she had it down—and her skin was shivering from the contact of these garments. Had she too been flying from something and had accepted this method of escape? But what frying-pan could be equal to this fire? All this led him back to the original circle. He was manifestly exerting his mind for her, and she found herself fully disposed to justify his interest.
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