‘Oh, Marthe,’ she groaned, using in her accustomed way the French version of her nurse’s name, ‘that pig is going to monsieur le baron. All sorts of battered tramps, junks and riff-raff of the seas trailed in and out. Now for it, Thames! Make as great a row as you can to divert his attention. ‘Go and fetch her home,’ he said; ‘it isn’t what we thought! It’s just a practical joke of hers. ’ ‘Don’t count on it. He sat on the bed, throwing aside his hat.
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