Capes was an exceptionally fair man of two or three-and-thirty, so ruddily blond that it was a mercy he had escaped light eyelashes, and with a minor but by no means contemptible reputation of his own. He was in trouble and she could not help him; that was the ache in her heart. ‘Ah, well, we’ll check the back and then go home. Who is to say that I am not André Valade, an obscure relation of the late vicomte.
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