Charvill does not believe the general will accept them. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. ‘Jacques, do not die while I am gone. “I wish you and I had drunk that love potion,” he said. I have calculated my chances, you perceive. ‘It does not matter, Jacques. You will also become a very rich man, though I wish that the circumstances had been different. “I can’t! He appears to be a most immovable person. “Delusion!” “You can call it what you like,” she said. I dare say it will be chattered about for weeks.
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