No sterner head was ever beheld beneath the cowl of a monk, or the bonnet of an inquisitor. And he could not return this love. “It can’t make any difference to you, and there are not half a dozen people in Paris who could tell us apart. Wood uttered something like an imprecation. “And what was that dreadful confession you had to make?” he was saying. ‘That,’ he said stonily, ‘is yet another point over which we fell out. “Come,” he said, “you can’t be meaning to bury yourself.
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