’ Madame Valade reseated herself, and Gerald set himself to flatter her into relaxation again. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. “I do not suppose he will be home till late. Perhaps Gerald was not as clothheaded as he had thought. The name of his father's murderer is also known to me. The tears were welling over now, but her voice was steady. Now I have done something for which you might be pardoned if you did kill me. Wood, in equal trepidation.
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