’ ‘Parbleu, it is I who am the idiot?’ she scolded furiously, removing one hand and digging it into her sleeve. Why not? Were not his own sentiments inclined in favour of the patient? But fifty gold was fifty gold. “You are my friend,” she said, “if any one is. After all there are other things. If ever I did meet a man I could love, I should love him”—her voice dropped again—“platonically. Too skilled to advertise their presence by a show of arms and men. He could not quite make her out; a new type.
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