“No,” she answered. Now, you and I can gossip at a gate, and Honi soit qui mal y pense. The soi-disant Valade held the centre of the room now, only an uncovered but closed card-table, its surface dusty, between him and the suite at the fireplace. The girl who had just left the room was as great a mystery to him now as on the afternoon when he had met her in Piccadilly and taken her to tea. She washed her face with unwonted elaboration before she went to bed.
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