His lovely black eyes softened until they became like languid as the night sky. With a rustle of her full lilac petticoats, Miss Froxfield turned back to Alderley. ‘Pardon, milor’,’ said Valade, ‘but Monsieur Charvill, he was not at fault. ‘We will converse in your own tongue,’ he said in French as he led her away. He had conveyed it to her, not verbally, but by means of a letter, which seemed to her a singularly ignoble method of prohibition.
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