She stood there with white set face and nervously clenched fingers. Grace, confidence, the power of movement even, seemed gone from her. “I suppose, daddy, you’ve no objection to my going on with my work at the Imperial College?” she asked. ’ ‘And your precious vicomte didn’t wish for the English one,’ said Charvill, acid in his voice. There was no broken faith—not even any question of anything of the sort.
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