“I don’t think she quite sees the harm of those people or the sort of life to which they would draw her,” she said. But what the deuce! He was human; he was a machine only when on the hunt. On a bench at the foot of the trees, with a pipe in his mouth, and a tankard by his side, sat the worthy carpenter, looking the picture of good-heartedness and benevolence. “How do you know?” “Well, it isn’t exactly a depressing state, is it?” “YOU don’t know. ‘Soi-disant? Then he is not Valade?’ ‘How can I know?’ she countered crossly.
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