“Don’t you understand? It is I whom you cared for in Paris, not Anna. She had imagined that prisons were white-tiled places, reeking of lime-wash and immaculately sanitary. He wore a battered sunhelmet, a loin-cloth and a pair of dilapidated canvas shoes. And with his daughter?’ ‘He wrote to Jarvis from an inn in France, saying that he had married Mademoiselle Valade, and that his baby naturally belonged with her father.
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