Why do you think I’m indulging in all this very un-English love talk?’ ‘But you are idiot, Gérard. You think you love this other man! No doubt you do love him. She had a bittersweet fragrance, like dusty books and honeysuckle. “I didn’t blow up the house. She climbed back into the window an hour before sunrise. ‘If you are not going to visit Charvill today, I’ll escort you back to the convent in Golden Square. The glance, which he threw at the door, was singularly expressive of his character: it was a mixture of alarm, effrontery, and resolution. Oh, the beautiful books! Romance, adventure, love stories! She gathered up the books in her arms and cuddled them, as a mother might have cuddled a child.
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