No doubt she was wondering what he had done in Charvill’s house and what he intended now. She realized that he was the sort of man one does not think much about at dinners. 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. "I know the hand—ha! my friend! and I have murdered him! And my sister was thus nobly, thus illustriously wedded. Will you find your destiny, I wonder, or will you go through life like so many others—a wanderer, knocking ever at empty doors, homeless to the last? Oh, if one could but find the way to your heart. ’ Total bullshit, if you ask me.
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