Cheveney walked away with a shrug of the shoulders. “You are of the genus obstinate,” he said. ‘Jacques, where are you hurt?’ But as she asked the question, she saw the wound. The lady looked them over in silence, and then pouting lips trembled, dark eyelashes fluttered, and in a broken voice, she pleaded, ‘Honoured messieurs, you will not allow this—this pig, to be thus cruel? He cannot arrest me. He passed, and came loitering back and stood beside her, silently looking into her face.
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