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. Drummond nodded. For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. And if she is not a nun, nor a refugee, and yet is entirely English, I’m hanged if I know what she is. And I don't want anything of yours destroyed, Hoddy.
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