‘As I have said, it was a quarrel between the vicomte and Monsieur Charvill. She hated tricking Shari, whose joy for life was the only thing that made her naive enough to fall for laced iced tea or hot cocoa, depending on the season. Will you forgive me—if I say no more?” She looked at him with perplexed, earnest eyes. She was not afraid of violence, but she was afraid of something mean, some secondary kind of force. As far as I recollect, there were two.
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