‘Monsieur Charvill,’ pursued Valade, ‘has left the chateau, and since we have heard from him nothing at all, but for the letters to his daughter from Italy. The woman I wanted was another man's wife. ” He rowed a stroke and watched the swirl of water from his oar broaden and die away. His eyes were bright, and his voice had in it an unaccustomed timbre. This is no place for me.
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