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THE INHERITORS
water jerks through a sluice the débris of once ordered fields.
"You are," I said, "you are—you—you—dragging an ancient name through the dust—you . . ."
I forget what I said. But I remember, "dragging an ancient name." It struck me, at the time, by its forlornness, as part of an appeal to her. It was so pathetically tiny a motive, so out of tone, that it stuck in my mind. I only remember the upshot of my speech; that, unless she swore—oh, yes, swore—to have done with de Mersch, I would denounce her to my aunt at that very moment and in that very house.
And she said that it was impossible.
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