“Now,” he said, “no one can blunder in upon us. It was she who had come out from the flat only a few minutes before. . It seemed as if each time her imagination reached out investingly, an invisible lash beat it back. Gashes on his arms were already beginning to heal and disappear. 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.
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