"It is your son. ‘Thank you,’ she said, leaning heavily on his arm for a moment. "Come here," said the petticoated tyrant. 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. “He has a stubbly yellow moustache, weak eyes, and great horrid hands.
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