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Valade, who was standing by her chair, glancing around the packed pink-papered saloon with a heavy frown on his face, was a thickset man of coarse, reddened feature, with a discontented air. She was not very clear about the position and duties of a chorus-girl, but it certainly had the air of being a last desperate resort. “Why? Do you think I’m a stoner?” He asked. One swift glance about the room, and a sensation of grim foreboding swept through him. ‘And certainly I wish that Joan will come with us. I saw someone in there whom I have always hoped that I should never meet again.
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