"Your enemy!" she returned imperfectly comprehending him. The ink, contained in a grimy bottle unearthed in the outhouse, was old, and made blotches as soon as it touched the paper. ‘It is not for myself, you understand,’ pursued the man, in an unctuous tone that sickened the general, ‘but for this poor one. Why do you think I’m indulging in all this very un-English love talk?’ ‘But you are idiot, Gérard.
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