Walpole for your apprehension. ‘Who, the émigrés?’ ‘Do I speak of the English, imbecile? Certainly the émigrés. She passed people in the streets and regarded them with a quickening apprehension, once or twice came girls dressed in slatternly finery, going toward Regent Street from out these places. Did she suppose him a possible pretender to her daughter’s hand? The girl—Dorothée, if memory served—was clearly marriageable, but he imagined most of these unhappy exiles were all but penniless. Don’t say anything, she thought to herself, say nothing more, Martin.
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