“They ought to have been lopped in the spring. But if you mean to take me to this Gérard, I shall know what to say to him. A hazy face appeared through the fog of sleep, pale and thin and looming. "Whose grave is this?" he inquired of a man who was standing near it. Good-bye, for the pressent—ha! ha!" And, laughing loudly at his own facetiousness, he quitted the Lodge. “Then you need to find someone else.
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