‘Oh, peste,’ she cried out in distressed tones. At the back of the house, on a bank, rose an old-fashioned terrace-garden, full of apple-trees and other fruittrees in blossom, and lively with the delicious verdure of early spring. “No way!” Michelle cried, and also looked around for pedestrian listeners. It was an odd room, used principally for the reception of guests and visiting dignitaries, packed from end to end with ill-assorted sofas and padded chairs. Capes bore a face of infinite perplexity.
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