She began to miss him when he was gone during the day and cherish the quiet times he spent only with her. Too late, alas, to stop the disastrous marriage. She felt a hysterical desire to strike him, to burst out crying, to blurt out the whole miserable truth. You'll find me at supper. Panting with effort, she held her point menacingly at Gosse’s chest. ‘Ain’t enough as my bed is took, my sheets all bloodied, and my gin took for to waste on that fellow’s wound. I do not choose the vicomte, for that would be foolish.
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