She had just this moment past told him that Monsieur Valade came to her after the tragedy, to the convent, from where he married her and brought her to England. Elegant, a little scornful, she leaned slightly against the back of a chair and looked him steadily in the eyes. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. Her prevailing effect was one of quiet and complete assurance, as though she knew all about everything, and was only restrained by her instinctive delicacy from telling what she knew.
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