“I mean it. How could you draw the curtain aside which hides the great and holy places of life—you, who have never loved?” “You have become French to the core,” she murmured. The soi-disant Valade held the centre of the room now, only an uncovered but closed card-table, its surface dusty, between him and the suite at the fireplace. His own peculiar genius—a miracle key to the hidden things in men's souls—had given him this immediate and astonishing illumination. “He is Annabel’s husband,” she reminded him.
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