It was the end, she told herself, fiercely. “Is that all you have to say?” Michelle challenged her. The mother was far more real to her than the father; the ghostly far more substantial than the living form. A pity, en effet, that she dare not truly desire him to rescue her. He was a young man of about two-and-twenty, who, without having anything remarkable either in dress or appearance, was yet a noticeable person, if only for the indescribable expression of cunning pervading his countenance.
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