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He took a handful of almonds and raisins that she held out to him—for both these young people had given up the practice of going out for luncheon—and kept her hand for a moment to kiss her finger-tips. His job as a painter was wearing him down acutely as he aged. She is no longer mine; she is yours. . ’ ‘Because I was a servant in the vicomte’s house? Things have changed. She was her mother’s child, fair of face, doted upon and spoiled by her attentions.
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