I've got an address here. Who is to say that I am not André Valade, an obscure relation of the late vicomte. Then he remembered that she was Anna’s sister. It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl. I love you still, Anna, but life holds other things than the love of man for woman. Still—” Then, with incredible and obviously deliberate stupidity, and a voice as flat as her own, he asked, “Who is the man?” Her spirit raged within her at the dumbness, the paralysis that had fallen upon her. She took the piece of paper and unfolded it in the safety of her lap. White caught her eye, and smiled benignly down the table.
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