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Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. ‘Where did you get that, miss?’ ‘It is the sword of monsieur le major. In vain did the woollendraper offer to set him free if he would restore the stolen article, or give up his associate, to whom it was supposed he might have handed it. We must never let your father know we went. The boy she had loved was gone. And one must—some of it must slip through one’s fingers. She had just this moment past told him that Monsieur Valade came to her after the tragedy, to the convent, from where he married her and brought her to England. With an open hand, he slapped her face.
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