’ ‘Parbleu, it is I who am the idiot?’ she scolded furiously, removing one hand and digging it into her sleeve. “I think, aunt,” she said, “you might trust to my self-respect to keep me out of that. If we were to wait till a prig was rightfully nabbed, we might tarry till doomsday. Brendon. Warm life was behind that always, even if it slept. And in the vestry was the sword of monsieur le major. I have come to you for sympathy, perhaps for help.
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