simply lost all hope. ” Her father’s irony deepened. “I love this warm end of summer more than words can tell,” he said. ’ ‘Dieu du ciel! But this is catastrophe. . ” His fingers touched hers for a moment under the ledge of the box. She told you —the truth. And through it all, like a golden thread on a piece of tapestry, weaving in and out of the patterns, the unspoken longing for love. The beautiful city that she had been awed by and even grown to love had been abandoned. The effort of self-repression cost him a sob. ’ A gleam of rare humour slid into Charvill’s chest.
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