She touched it, and her gaze lifted. The asylum was approached by a broad gravel walk, leading through a garden edged on either side by a stone balustrade, and shaded by tufted trees. Her clock had stopped—stopped at the very hour on which she had quitted the Mint! She had not the heart to wind it up again. ‘Oh, Marthe,’ she groaned, using in her accustomed way the French version of her nurse’s name, ‘that pig is going to monsieur le baron.
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