She pushed between the pews, hoping to reach the sword first, while desperately holding on to her petticoats to keep them up, as her sword arm wavered. She saw now that it was not a dissipated face; it was as smooth and unlined as polished marble, which at present it resembled. At the same time she was wildly exultant at the resolution she had taken, the end she had made to her blunder. ‘Gérard will think that I have gone back to London.
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