" The Wastrel laughed. The vicomte has, he say, enough femmes in his hands. Under another name,—not my own hateful one,—I will strive to distinguish myself in some foreign service, and win myself a reputation, or perish honourably. He turned irresolutely to the table upon which lay the scattered leaves of his old manuscripts. Her eyes were dilated— fixed in a horrified stare at the parting in the curtains which hung before the window. But she had found it very difficult.
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