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’ ‘I was called in, ma’am, to catch a French spy—at least, that is what Pottiswick thought. Marvel, who had been a little discomposed by the treatment he had experienced on Holborn Hill, very composedly filled and lighted his pipe. He never said hello, as if it had become a personal taboo for him. Did she suppose him a possible pretender to her daughter’s hand? The girl—Dorothée, if memory served—was clearly marriageable, but he imagined most of these unhappy exiles were all but penniless.
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