“Dear me!” he said. ‘This is not love, Marthe. She glanced at him. The weather's been foul enough for the last fortnight, but I've never turned my back upon it. ‘Yes, very rude,’ agreed the major. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. I will not trust you. "Go on first with the light," he said. “You wish me to stay?” he asked, in a low tone. ” “We do.
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