You did not complain then that I personated you—no, nor when Sir John came to me in Paris, and for your sake I lied. ’ She shrugged fatalistically. “I think I ought to have one. In the subdued light she could not tell whether he was asleep or awake. That was supposed to be Madame Valade. Her whole face stiffened with suppressed anger. If ever I did meet a man I could love, I should love him”—her voice dropped again—“platonically. Maggot.
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