The heavy weapon thundered against the door; and it speedily yielded to their efforts. The theme was a masquerade. I told them lies. But the father, to go his way forever alone! The iron in the man!—the iron in this child of his! Wanting a little love, a caress now and then. The vicomte has, he say, enough femmes in his hands. I can esteem him, regard him; but, love him as he ought to be loved—that I cannot do.
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