"The pocket-book you prigged contained the letters I wanted. She was to fall back amongst the ruck, a young woman of talent, content perhaps to earn a scanty living by painting Christmas cards, or teaching at a kindergarten. “Why not?” He asked. ‘Therefore she cannot be the daughter of Suzanne Valade. We middle-aged fools and we old fools can no longer dream. You did not complain then that I personated you—no, nor when Sir John came to me in Paris, and for your sake I lied. ” At this point she had perceived that she was drifting from her subject.
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