‘Monsieur Charvill thought perhaps that his daughter would find not a welcome. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. 1. She never touched the manuscript with pencil, but jotted down her notes on slips of paper and left them where he might easily find them. And there was no intimation whatever that the blinds would ever go up or the windows or doors be opened, or the chandeliers, that seemed to promise such a blaze of fire, unveiled and furnished and lit.
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