About halfway across this interval, when everything seemed going well, Capes had a shock. ‘It is, you understand, that Monsieur Charvill did not—how do you say in English?—having an eye to an eye—’ ‘Didn’t see eye to eye with the Vicomte Valade? That I can well believe. The smells of skewered fennel, roast chicken, and broiled pheasant saturated the air, and she could smell other wonderful aromas about them. "Where is he?" he cried. I can't bear it. He did not even reply to her for several minutes.
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