“What is the exact force of a motif?” she asked at random. Madame Valade was that kind of woman. ‘You, Mademoiselle Charvill, are as unlike most of your sex as you can be. The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation.
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