His face was downcast. ‘But we—mon mari and myself—we have the bonne chance. As he passed out he saw in the hall a quietly dressed man with keen grey eyes, talking to one of the footmen. They are all at prayer at this hour. But if I painted her as I'd like to, the natives would instantly distrust me; and I'd have to build up confidence all over again. Mischief bubbled up in her. He regarded that perennial miracle of pinning with wrathful eyes.
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