She noted the dank hair on his forehead, the sweat of revolting nature. Did she suppose him a possible pretender to her daughter’s hand? The girl—Dorothée, if memory served—was clearly marriageable, but he imagined most of these unhappy exiles were all but penniless. Jacques, Jacques!’ His face was white, but his eyes were open, if a trifle glazed. Here was a poor half-naked creature, with a straw crown on his head, and a wooden sceptre in his hand, seated on the ground with all the dignity of a monarch on his throne.
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