It was never intended that I should marry Monsieur Valade, but after the tragedy—’ her eyes darkening in genuine distress ‘—and that he was the only survivor, he came to me in the convent and married me, and brought me to England. One who steals. There is a button loose on that coat under your pillow. Here and there, patches of flesh adhered to the bones, and the dank dripping hair hanging about what had once been the face, gave it a ghastly appearance. She was civil, but she was obviously impatient to know his errand. Now you haven’t the ghost of one—not if you play the game fair.
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