That would come later. At the door through which she had entered the room stood the so-called Monsieur Valade. A dark mass of wreckage, over which hung a slight mist of vapour, lay half in the ditch, half across the hedge, close under a tree from the trunk of which the bark had been torn and stripped. The teacher droned on and on about the mournful funerary love of Romeo and Juliet, a tale she had long since tired of.
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