" CHAPTER XIX. She tried to compose her thoughts, to think of the last six months, to steep herself in the calm beauty of the surroundings. What right had she to call herself “Alcide”? It was abominable, an imposture. And here he was, but a hundred yards away, this wastrel who trailed his genius through the mud. On this elevation a table was now placed, around which sat the turnkeys and their guests, regaling themselves on the fragrant beverage provided by the prisoner.
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