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“My chief,” he said, “took it into his head to have an impromptu dinner party. I guess. But a doll that rolled its eyes and had flaxen hair! Except for the manual labour—there had been natives to fetch and carry—she and Cosette were sisters in loneliness. You have to marry me. It had been her father’s surname, and it had sounded far more innocuous and American than Iovelli. “No,” she said, under her breath, “you can’t face it.
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