“He says you are frigid, Madame. Give me your name, girl!’ ‘Again?’ Mademoiselle rolled her eyes. Every now and then her general presence became radiantly dazzling in his eyes; she would appear in the street coming toward him, a surprise, so fine and smiling and welcoming was she, so expanded and illuminated and living, in contrast with his mere expectation. She dropped the locket into its sweet hiding place. It may be, it probably will all come to, nothing. I won’t tolerate any foreign tongue in this house, least of all that confounded French.
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