The comtesse always felt Madame Valade to be not of her class, of course. And if she is not a nun, nor a refugee, and yet is entirely English, I’m hanged if I know what she is. In a moment or two, Madame Valade recovered her sangfroid. Clarice rubbed her belly, singing songs to the unborn baby. It had been his fevered imagination that had endued the garment with some extraordinary value. E.
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