Under this unnerving scrutiny, a slow flush mounted to the woman’s cheeks. I can. Now tell me, if you can, something about the man who calls himself Valade. You must think of this evening, John, sometimes—as a sort of atonement. The air was sweet with the perfume of flowers, and the melody of murmuring insects, the blue sky was cloudless, the heat of the sun was tempered by the heather-scented west wind. But it is only fair to warn you that it isn’t expected.
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