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And the man he regretted was not the ambiguous being, the amended Berselius, so obviously a failure, but the real Berselius who had returned to meet death. One day in March, nine months later, at Champrosay, in the garden of a little cottage near the Paris road, Maxine Berselius stood directing the movements of an old man in a blue blouse Father Champardy by name, and a gardener by profession.
Maxine smiled as it vanished, then she turned; the garden gate had clicked its latch, and a big man was coming up the path. There was only Father Champardy to see; and as his back was turned, he saw nothing and as he was deaf, he heard nothing.
Madame Berselius, who had no scruple in using money obtained in any way whatsoever, fell in with her daughter's views after a few formal objections. Gillette had furnished the cottage as only a French firm can furnish a cottage, and the garden, which had gone to decay, Maxine had furnished herself with the help of Father Champardy.
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