Anna, quitting her chair, dropped on her knees by her sister’s side and took her hand. The youth produced a crumpled-up card from his waistcoat pocket. “Don’t you know, child, that this is torture for me? What in God’s name more can you have to tell me?” Her face had become almost like a marble image. The vicomte must be well known to those high-born who have gone to England. "Well, he's a pretty fellow at all events," observed Mrs. “It is very doubtful,” he said.
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