A white house that she often found charming loomed gray and ashen, its gardens shorn for the coming winter. 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. Then she put more coal on, piled it over the ashes, and stood once more upright.
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