If she had any idea at all, it was something she dimly recalled from her books: something celestially beautiful, with a happy ending. She was aware of the body of the court, of clerks seated at a black table littered with papers, of policemen standing about stiffly with expressions of conscious integrity, and a murmuring background of the heads and shoulders of spectators close behind her. ’ ‘And your precious vicomte didn’t wish for the English one,’ said Charvill, acid in his voice.
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