Jests are not for seasons like this. I was always told my mother died the day I was born. Our men had him fast, held down in a chair. “It is a secret mission,” she declared. 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 recognized the handwriting, and turned a shade paler.
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