It was a great weight from her shoulders to confide in another human being, and she suspected he did truly believe her. When he had finished he took up the wine list and ordered a bottle of dry champagne. Like a petulant child he snapped. She glanced at the Frenchman, and found him struggling with the portrait that was embedded around his scalp. “Your father,” he said, “remarked that all’s well that ends well, and that he was disposed to let bygones be bygones. ’ For a moment he looked daunted. But I don't understand her; she's over my head.
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