“So Cheveney was her friend, you think, eh?” he remarked. Nothing, however, could be discerned, except the crumbling brickwork. ‘You!’ ‘Yes, it is I, mademoiselle,’ he continued in his own tongue. He threw her on the bed. “I”—he seemed to have a difficulty with the word—“I love you. Immediately behind this individual, came a pale, poverty-stricken woman, whose forlorn aspect contrasted strongly with his plump and comfortable physiognomy. It was decrepit and too large.
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