He drew her away from this thought. Me—I’m nothing but a country wench, and one who went to the bad. Somehow. ‘You think I am like that Valade? No, a thousand times. It had ceased raining, but the atmosphere was moist and chill, and the ground deluged by the recent showers. In you—if you can love me—there is salvation. Morals only begin when that is settled. And if she is not a nun, nor a refugee, and yet is entirely English, I’m hanged if I know what she is.
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