A spot of colour, brighter than any rouge, burned on her cheeks. The vicomte has, he say, enough femmes in his hands. The idea of anything criminal never entered her thoughts. Something with iron resolve the father had kept hidden all these years in the lonely citadel of his heart. But such is the perversity of the human that frequently thereafter he purposely crooked the part in his hair, to give her the excuse to fetch the comb. .
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