“I am perfectly certain that that man meant to be rude to me. “No, no,” she cried. Afterwards we started for a motor ride to a place outside Paris for déjeuner, and I suppose the man’s nerve failed him. She fought a compulsive urge to yank his shirt free. If this is the young lady, she can perhaps calm him. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. He had hurt her. But the general was turning on him, the hint of emotion wiped from his lined features. His throat filled; he wanted to weep.
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