I was sorry for what I did afterwards; for, I don't know why, but, poor, lady! with her pale face, and black eyes, she reminded me of my mother. I'm no mollycoddle. —Though if my name should become as famous as theirs, it wouldn't much matter. He spent the evening telling her stories of Greece as she sat in front of a roaring fire. Why was she noting things like this? Capes seemed selfpossessed and elaborately genial and commonplace, but she knew him to be nervous by a little occasional clumsiness, by the faintest shadow of vulgarity in the urgency of his hospitality. So you, Jacques, must go and wait for me with the horse.
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