“You’ve got my view,” he said, after a pensive second. ” He recovered himself. I wonder if some of them did—and it didn’t get reported. In privacy he read and reread it a dozen times, and eventually destroyed it by fire. Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. That was supposed to be Madame Valade. He had been ill; no matter about that: he recollected every thought that had led up to it and every act that had consummated the deed.
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