Sebastian dug through the viscous layers of foul-smelling clay with a shovel, each successive insertion creating an obscene sucking noise that ate at her sanity. The person, shortly afterwards ushered into the room, seemed by the imperfect light,—for the evening was advancing, and the chamber darkened by heavy drapery,—to be a middle-sized middle-aged man, of rather vulgar appearance, but with a very shrewd aspect. ‘Pardon, milor’,’ said Valade, ‘but Monsieur Charvill, he was not at fault. “By Jove!” he broke out, “one tries to take a serious, sober view. ‘Indeed?’ Gerald said politely. The brilliant sunshine poured through the window, effecting an oblong block of mote-swimming light. At the door through which she had entered the room stood the so-called Monsieur Valade. “You wish me to stay?” he asked, in a low tone. "Enough's as good as a feast. In the afternoon he probably loafs in his pajamas. As she crossed the square, almost within a stone’s throw of her lodgings, she came face to face with Courtlaw.
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