" The little girl's countenance fell. “He’s got good taste, you know. Be this as it may, though a Catholic, he died a friend to the Protestant succession. “Stay where you are for a moment,” she directed. ‘Beg pardon, sir?’ asked the sergeant, evidently mystified. Parbleu, but she was a fool. She did this to please him. Wanted her out of the way because he had been afraid of her, afraid of himself! He, at fifty-four! Then into this void poured a flaming anger, a blind and unreasoning anger. There were cakes and sandwiches—for Ennison a sort of Elysian feast, long to be remembered. “It is a great art,” she said in broken English.
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