“I am afraid,” she answered, “that one’s friends can judge only of the externals, and the things which matter, the things inside are realized only by oneself— stop. A fever of shame ran through her being. They were properly brought up, and sat still and straight, and took the luck fate brought them as gentlewomen should. Groans and hoots were now raised by the crowd, and there was an evident disposition to rescue. No matter how often she came across this phase in love stories, there was never anything explanatory: as if all human beings perfectly understood. None saw, though all felt, his presence, and heard the thunder of his voice. On gaining a stack of chimneys at the back of the house, he came to a pause, and again unmasked his lantern. ‘Oh, Marthe,’ she groaned, using in her accustomed way the French version of her nurse’s name, ‘that pig is going to monsieur le baron.
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