We must never let your father know we went. At the door through which she had entered the room stood the so-called Monsieur Valade. “Dinner is served, m’m,” said the efficient parlor-maid in the archway, and the worst was over. He rested his brow on his hand and conveyed magnificent tragedy by his pose. The room in which he was detained—that lately occupied by the Mohocks, who, it appeared, had been allowed to depart,—was calculated to inspire additional apprehension and disgust.
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