She ignored his question. Despair engulfed her at the horrid remembrance that the one particular Englishman she knew to be sympathique did not at all wish to marry her. Any natural fineness would be numbed by drink. "You are my prisoner. He's more like a lord than—" As she spoke, steps were heard approaching; the door was thrown open, and a young man marched boldly into the room. “What are you doing?” “Nothing. “You poor little girl!” he cried. Very good. ‘As a matter of fact, I’m not at all sympathique. I don’t want to get old or to watch my kids get married or retire.
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