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She lunged without warning again, and Gosse, just catching her blade on his own, was obliged to retreat backwards up the little stair. ‘It did not seem to me that it was so. Sometimes—a lonely forlorn child—she had gone to him and put her arms around his neck. Even though you cursed your own existence, I had not been so joyous in a thousand years! Finally, he took the family and remaining servants away to the Manor. Paris looms behind—a tragedy of strange recollections—here she emerges Phœnix-like, subtly developed, a flawless woman, beautiful, self-reliant, witty, a woman with the strange gift of making all others beside her seem plain or vulgar. If all wives were of my mind and my spirit, husbands would soon be taught their own insignificance.
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