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Alexandre Dumas, a man who never wrote one word when three would do, and never wrote them himself if he could pay someone else to pen them for him, sat stolidly in a low armchair, quill in hand. Perched below him, visibly at ease but ready to slip off his stone support and raise his sword if need be, was d’Artagnan. With his floppy boots and feathered hat,
he exemplified the adventurer as fearless dandy, whose firm gaze belied his dainty lace collar.