On Monday Charvill had still not returned, and the major duly presented himself at Mrs Chalkney’s house in Grosvenor Square, thanking his stars that his friend Roding would not be there to spoil sport. Her cheeks were the colour of chalk, her eyes were filled with terror. Clotilde rushed out of the house, carrying her boy and tugging her girl by the ear. “It’s still a marvel to me that we are to be forgiven,” she said, turning. It was finished by the end of that year, each character having asserted itself pronouncedly in my imagination. Away off in the fields the bluesmocked peasants bent still at their toil.
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