She would marry him. She was no longer a confederate in that. And though I say it that shouldn't say it, no man can tie a better knot. By and by—as the paroxysm subsided and he became motionless—she stole back to the bungalow to wait. He passed but a cursory glance over the formal certificate that identified the Frenchman before him as one André Valade, distant cousin to the Vicomte Valade. The young fellow was almost as odd in his way as the girl was in hers.
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