He might go on as the devoted lover until he tired. I am not of the canaille, but a bourgeois. He looked like a French boy soldier she had once glimpsed marching towards his death in one of the battles they would later call the Hundred Years War. Wood became sensible that he was not alone. “She’s my wife,” the man muttered. ‘Parbleu,’ came indignantly from the lady. He was a philosopher.
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