‘But we—mon mari and myself—we have the bonne chance. Still, something had marked the face, something had left an indelible touch. Further on, there were impressions of bloody footsteps along the floor. You know I call that positively wicked. But her mind was ruffled, and its mirror-like surface of satisfaction was not easily restored. She began rubbing it with her pocket-handkerchief. Mr. "Your sister is dead," said he, in a deep whisper. She stared out of the paned glass window, watching the trees being blown bare by the gale force.
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