At this moment, his quick ears detected the sound of footsteps on the stairs. ‘Who, the émigrés?’ ‘Do I speak of the English, imbecile? Certainly the émigrés. And I’m off to America, and if my steamer goes to the bottom of the Atlantic I’ll thank the Lord for it. Oh! my dear, dear son, be warned in time. “Poor Lucy!” Cathy exclaimed as she rushed in the door, umbrella sheathed.
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