After all, she was a consummate actress. But I'm sure it's important. A little Madeira seemed to recover her enough to resume the discussion. “Well,” she said, “good-night, father. "When in France, I heard from the Marshal that his brother had perished in London on the night of the Great Storm. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. “Do you know,” she confessed, “I never thought of that?” He looked at her as though doubting even now whether she could possibly be in earnest.
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