” Her father declared there had been no difficulty. I’m minded to take a whip and beat some sense into you. It’s a pure joy of giving—giving to YOU. Do you think that I shall ever make an actress, my friend?” “I doubt it,” he answered bluntly. Did she suppose him a possible pretender to her daughter’s hand? The girl—Dorothée, if memory served—was clearly marriageable, but he imagined most of these unhappy exiles were all but penniless. He was always anticipating, stepping into the future, torturing himself with non-existent troubles.
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