She helped herself to the remainder of the slightly congealed bacon, and reverted to the problem of getting her luggage out of the house. ‘Don’t fob me off, boy. Burn your palette and your easel. ‘A man who is false, who steals papers, who has a plot to take another’s name, who lies to the Mother Abbess and to me, and above all this—’ her voice near to breaking ‘—one who is French. I mean Miss Charvill no harm.
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