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Updated: June 8, 2025
Doctor Varrillat was watching Madame Delphine. She was very pale. She had passed a trembling hand into a pocket of her skirt, and now drew out another picture, in a case the counterpart of the first. He reached out for it, and she handed it to him. He looked at it a moment, when his eyes suddenly lighted up and he passed it to the attorney.
When they brought her to herself, Olive was kneeling at her head silently weeping. "Maman, chère maman!" said the girl softly, kissing her lips. "You will go home with me," said Madame Varrillat, with great kindness of manner "just across the street here; I will take care of you till you feel better. And Olive will stay here with Madame Thompson. You will be only the width of the street apart."
"In a word," said Evariste Varrillat, the physician, "you think we are partly to blame for the omission of many of your Paternosters, eh?" Father Jerome smiled. "No; a man cannot plead so in his own defense; our first father tried that, but the plea was not allowed. But, now, there is our absent friend. I tell you truly this whole community ought to be recognized as partners in his moral errors.
"And yet, Olive herself never thought of it. She does not know a word." The hand came out holding a miniature. Madame Varrillat passed it to Jean Thompson. "Ouala so popa," said Madame Delphine. "That is her father." It went from one to another, exciting admiration and murmured praise. "She is the image of him," said Madame Thompson, in an austere undertone, returning it to her husband.
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