“Well, no,” she answered. He was a young man of about two-and-twenty, who, without having anything remarkable either in dress or appearance, was yet a noticeable person, if only for the indescribable expression of cunning pervading his countenance. He took into his soul some of the father's misery, some of the daughter's, to mingle with his own. “It’s the stir of spring,” he said. ‘Moreover, no one will believe any more that Yolande is me when they see this.
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