She came to spend hours with the bastard children that the women brought, dressing and feeding the tiny ones, inventing games for the older ones. A spot of colour, brighter than any rouge, burned on her cheeks. She crushed the letter in her hand. “Dear me,” she said, “I fancy you exaggerate my fame. Almost the best of all. " "My poor son!" groaned the widow, sinking backwards. That dress is thirty years old, if a day. And where was that devil? Had the soldiers found him? She could not think he had escaped, for she had only just made it into the passage as they entered the library.
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