She was breathing hard, dragging for air, half in fright and half because the sudden effort had used up what little air she had managed to draw so briefly. ‘Pardon, milor’,’ said Valade, ‘but Monsieur Charvill, he was not at fault. ‘You dare to come to me? What do you wish of me? Why have you come? I do not want you!’ She swept round on Gerald abruptly and he braced for the onslaught. If the young ladies were dowerless, which seemed likely, their attire at least—so Lucilla assured him in a whisper—was of the first stare. Even the children jeer. Mind, I, Baptist Kettleby, say so.
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