For just as though a vague likeness is sometimes borne swiftly in upon one, so a vague dissimilarity between the face on the poster and the heroine of his thoughts had slowly crept into his consciousness. ‘Come on. What matters it? My servant, he is wounded—and by a Frenchman, if you wish to make an arrest. ‘André? Que dit-il?’ ‘My wife does not understand,’ said the fellow, frowning deeply. The assassination, as you call it, was, obviously, the vengeance of a kinsman of the injured lady, who no doubt was of good family, upon her seducer.
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