She put a hand to the lad’s cold cheek and choked on a sob. "'Odd's-my-life!—what's that?" he cried, greatly alarmed. I am a murderer. “Is it your maid?” he asked. Did she suppose him a possible pretender to her daughter’s hand? The girl—Dorothée, if memory served—was clearly marriageable, but he imagined most of these unhappy exiles were all but penniless. He was six blocks away from his home, a ten story building apparently made solely of glass.
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