"If he does, his memory is better than mine; at any rate, I am half afraid of him.

Come, Octave, let us go." They turned away, and Octave would have forgotten all about the occurrence had not Bruno, delighted at having found an old acquaintance, persisted in following them.
"This is strange," exclaimed the Viscount, "very strange indeed.
Look here, my man," said he, addressing a peasant, who was engaged in clipping a hedge by the roadside, "do you know whose dog this is ?" "Yes, my lord, it belongs to the young Duke of Champdoce." "Of course," answered Diana, "I have often seen the dog at the Widow Rouleau's, and have occasionally given it a piece of bread.

He was always with Francoise, who ran off with that man Daumon.

Oh, yes, I know him now; here, Bruno, here!" The dog rushed to her, and, stooping down, she caressed him, thus hoping to conceal her tell-tale face.
Octave drew his wife's arm within his without another word.

A strange feeling of doubt had arisen in his mind.