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‘A spitfire, ain’t she, sir?’ Roding ignored this. Yet her hands dropped, and she sighed deeply. The soi-disant Valade held the centre of the room now, only an uncovered but closed card-table, its surface dusty, between him and the suite at the fireplace. With trembling fingers she opened the post-bag. For a long time she surveyed a row of towering holly-hocks, as though they offered an explanation. “You’re still,” he said, “in the educational years. There was nothing to be got out of the man. Still, thereafter she had avoided Morgan's; partly out of fear and partly because of her father's mandate. For a pity, she has chosen to remain, and it has been her death.
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