‘Pardon, milor’,’ said Valade, ‘but Monsieur Charvill, he was not at fault. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget. “I’d chuck this lark right off if I were you, Vee,” he said.
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