It was an excuse, dredged up on the spur of the moment to cover a slip. Lucy’s guts ached with jealousy and bitterness, building in a knot that twisted in her stomach, rag-like. Her features are the same, yet the change has written its mark into her face. ‘Pardon, milor’,’ said Valade, ‘but Monsieur Charvill, he was not at fault. Wood; but they never come now. "She's glorious!" He knew that he must hoodwink this keeneyed Scot, even as he must hoodwink everybody: publicly, the devoted husband; privately, the celibate. I don’t know if I express myself clearly. Too damned chickenhearted to confess to me he’d run off with the woman. “You frighten me!” He smiled at her indulgently. "My demeanour ought to convince you that I came with no hostile intention. Something in his smile, in the cynical suggestiveness of his deferential tone, maddened her.
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