To be confronted with the girl’s damned Frenchman of a husband was another matter altogether. “The Holy Ghost! The Pope! My mother!” She squealed. Yet an indiscriminating, wrong-headed world gave such fellows all sorts of distinctions. ‘I’m only a poor country wench, child. I could make away with him at once, as you are about to make away with your nephew, Sir Rowland,—but that wouldn't serve my turn. You did not learn that in a convent.
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