It lay undisturbed in the remotest corner of the recess. ‘Tchah! So you’re the whelp’s girl, are you? Suppose you’ve nothing but that villainous French in your tongue. ‘Bête. What he needed was not a food but a flavour; and the cocoanut taste of the chestnuts soothed his burning tongue and throat. “I should like to speak to you for a few minutes,” he said to Anna, dropping his voice a little.
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