She had nothing to say for herself. He forgot Annabel’s idle attempts at love-making, all the cul-de-sac gallantry of the moment. Love and lavender, he thought, perhaps wistfully. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. I shall not part with you again. Who is to say that I am not André Valade, an obscure relation of the late vicomte.
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