" Mintë," said Berk, words slightly slurred by drink. His eyes were red. I doubted he'd gone to bed at all. "I kind of like it."Gods no. My knees wen... weak. Tears stung at my eyes; I wanted to die. I left home to escape that nickname and the judgement it represented.My name was Mistë, not Mintë. The words were similar but so very far apart. Mistë meant the beauty of falling rain. It was a noble, graceful name, full of nature's wonder. Mintë meant small woman. Small. And applied to me it could. "I believe so," replied the secretary with slight uneasiness. "But Monte Cristo is not the only one I miss here; I do not see Morrel." Morrel? Do they know him?" asked Chateau-Renaud. "I think he has only been introduced to Madame de Villefort." Still, he ought to have been here," said Debray; "I wonder what will be talked about to-night; this funeral is the news of the day. But hush, here comes our minister of justice; he will feel obliged to make some little speech to the cousin," and the. More

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