‘Laisse-moi,’ she threw at him, her brief attack of sobs already ended, although the trace of tears on her cheeks bore witness to its sincerity. Somebody may be on the watch—perhaps, that old ginger-hackled Jew. “I wonder if there is anything wrong with my manners,” she said. He gurgled as if trying to communicate. Few approached the émigrés directly, preferring to stare covertly from behind their fans, while pretending to admire the simple elegance of Lady Bicknacre’s neo-classical refurbishments. Here one might live the life of golden days. He hung precariously on the ragged edge, but he hung there.
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