‘You are wise, Marthe. By instinct. I can pull the strings of this stiff-necked puppet as I please. She was dressed in a simple evening gown of soft creamy silk, with a yoke of dark old embroidery that enhanced the gentle gravity of her style, and her black hair flowed off her open forehead to pass under the control of a simple ribbon of silver. She had no inkling of that insupportable wrong. “I believe,” he said, “that you mean me to be Prime Minister.
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