Gosse had come to Blaye, so he had said, feeling it his duty as the vicomte’s erstwhile secretary to deliver the fateful tidings, bringing with him one of the servant girls, Yolande, who had also escaped the fury of the mob. For five minutes he has been trying to think of something to say. ‘I do not understand you. ‘But it is entirely myself,’ she exclaimed aloud. You know—I wish I could roll my little body up small and squeeze it into your hand and grip your fingers upon it.
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