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‘But this Englishwoman,’ asked the man Valade, his puzzlement plain to see, ‘who was she?’ The question irritated Charvill. In each corner stood a stout square post reaching to the ceiling. ‘Your wife?’ ‘My wife,’ he repeated, rising also, his smile mocking her. ” “I suppose,” said Constance, stencilling away at bright pink petals, “it’s our lot. “What of her? Have you quarrelled with her?” The girl shook her head.
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