She ought to be softened and tender and confidential at this phase of her life. “Too late, my dear girl,” she exclaimed. “Yes. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative. On the way he confessed. His French is better than mine, so he knew exactly what he was handling.
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