Slowly, he drew back his head and looked into her face. ‘It does not matter to me if he comes or no, madame. Her mind left her. This morning he heard voices—McClintock's and the Wastrel's. I'll tote it myself. ‘Dieu du ciel, but answer me!’ Martha’s eyes were swimming again, and she reached out. There was no past, no future, only this exhilarating present.
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