She got up, drew up her blind, and stared out of window at a dawn-cold vision of chimneys for a time, and then went and sat on the edge of her bed. Bullding repeated, rather struck with the phrase. So while he talked to this girl of work and freedom, his slightly protuberant eyes were noting the gracious balance of her limbs and body across the gate, the fine lines of her chin and neck. Had this not been the case, he must have refused even to see his Frenchified granddaughter. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping.
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