But this was a vicomte’s sister. And of course! She had a brilliant idea. She never touched the manuscript with pencil, but jotted down her notes on slips of paper and left them where he might easily find them. “You must remember,” she said, “that you yourself are responsible for your altered looks. Why had he kissed her? What had led him into that? Neither love nor passion— utter blankness so far as reducing the act to terms. She is no longer mine; she is yours. ’ ‘Why should you care?’ demanded Roding, exasperated.
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