" Figg turned aside to hide the tears that started to his eyes,—for the stout prizefighter, with a man's courage, had a woman's heart,—and the procession again set forward. His aunt, here at McClintock's? It was unbelievable. “Here we are,” he said, “shining through each other like light through a stained-glass window. The comtesse always felt Madame Valade to be not of her class, of course.
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