Had he but known it, his outburst had done him no harm in the major’s eyes. Or he would find something—a wave in her hair, a little line in the contour of her brow or neck, that made an exquisite discovery. She plucked at the knots of her racket and heard him to the end, then spoke in a restrained undertone. For a time they walked in silence. Come, mon ami, come!’ Ever faithful, Kimble dragged himself into a sitting position, gasping at the pain this caused him.
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