‘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. He must have been following her from room to room, silent in his stockinged feet. Spit of your mother. She had a feeling at his departure as of an immense cavity, of something enormously gone; she could not tell whether it was infinite regret or infinite relief. "He seems infatuated about the lad," observed Wild.
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