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"I never wrote you any letter." Yvonne raised her blue eyes, startled, despairing, and looked into his for the first time. "You did not write that you had found a a home which you preferred to to any you had ever had? And that it would be useless to to offer you any other?" "I never wrote. I was very ill and could not. Afterward I went to you. You were gone."
Yvonne that's my name Yvonne Deschamps, compagnon de voyage of the Philidor aforesaid." "No," he protested. "Why not?" He shook his head. "I don't like the idea," he said thoughtfully. "But I insist." He looked down at her for a moment, measuring her with his eye, and then smiled and shrugged a shoulder with an air of accepting the inevitable. And then as the thought came to him.
Guggenslocker stared in a bewildered sort of manner at their niece. Then Aunt Yvonne turned questioning eyes toward her husband, who promptly bowed low before the tall American and said: "Your kind offices shall never be forgotten, sir. When are the ladies to be ready?"
And they both laughed and looked at each other, for she had been held by the little golden clasp, the fleur-de-lis. "You see," he said, "it will always draw me to you." But a shadow fell on her fair face, and she sighed as she gently took his arm. When they entered their box, Clifford was still tormenting the poor Colonel. "Old dog thinks I know him," he grinned, as Yvonne and Rex came in.
Then after you have talked with her if you would like me to find Yvonne and ask her to come to you " With these words, having managed to reach the half closed door, Sally disappeared. Miss Patricia Lord was on her way to the French village only a few miles from their farm house.
The next evening Yvonne was at the well in the road where the young congregated in order that the curé might have business. The corner of her eye was engaged in a search for David, albeit her set mouth seemed unrelenting. He saw the look; braved the mouth, drew from it a recantation and, later, a kiss as they walked homeward together. Three months afterwards they were married.
Her dress was of palest green satin brocade, a genuine Court dress of a century old. Her arms and neck gleamed with a snowy whiteness. She looked as if she had just stepped out of an ancient picture. There came an impatient cry from within the room. "Oh, come in! Come in! I'm not nearly ready, never shall be, I think. Where is Yvonne? Couldn't she spare me a single moment?"
The old woman rarely spoke and when she did one of the girls would throw her a hasty remark that hardly interrupted their chatter. Fuselli was thinking of the other men lining up outside the dark mess shack and the sound the food made when it flopped into the mess kits. An idea came to him. He'd have to bring Sarge to see Yvonne. They could set him up to a feed.
Another moment and I should have poured out the story of the mad, hopeless passion that filled my heart to bursting, when of a sudden "Yvonne, Yvonne!" came Genevieve's fresh voice from the other end of the terrace. The spell of that moment was broken. Methought Mademoiselle made a little gesture of impatience as she answered her sister's call; then, with a word of apology, she left me.
As he sat on his hard stool in the whitewashed workshop on the Bowery, clumsily pasting the flamboyant portrait on the boxes of the 'Yvonne Rupert cigar, he wondered dully after the first flush of joy at getting a job after weeks of hunger at the strange fate that had again brought him into connection, however remote, with stageland.
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