Her father’s step quickened to a trot. In her little sitting-room she turned on the electric light and looked around half fearfully. . He fell backwards on his butt, the wind knocked out of him. Mr. Nice lady. His face turned a dark crimson. 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. She was obliged, as she explained continually to every one who cared to listen, to be so very particular.
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