At the Palazzo, the cook’s cook had a team of servants under him. I don’t love you. She heard this standard expression of a strong soul wrung with a critical coldness that astonished herself. Without turning or looking in his direction she leaned forwards, her head supported upon her fingers, her elbows upon her knees. You came out like an ant for your nuptial flight. He never asked questions; he never addressed his companions; and frequently he took off his cap and wiped his forehead. She saw, twenty yards down the platform, the shiny hat and broad back and inimitable swagger of Ramage. The militia offered little in the way of relief. Blotted out—Love! With infinite care, through nearly a thousand pages, her father had obliterated the word Love.
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