On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. Too many. Through an open door was a glimpse of the bathroom—a vision of luxury, out of which Annabel herself, in a wonderful dressing-gown and followed by a maid presently appeared. Was the man debating whether or no to tell the truth? A grimace played about Valade’s mouth and the general waited, maintaining his own rigid pose. He is Jacques. His car was there.
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