To his consternation, she was holding an unwieldy, ugly-looking pistol, all wood and tarnished steel, with both hands about the butt. He was holding the ring to the light, and narrowly examining the inscription. She wore a plain black dress, reaching almost to her throat—her small oval face, with the large brown eyes, was colourless, delicately expressive, yet with something mysterious in its Sphinx-like immobility. ‘You cannot be André Valade if you tell them I am one of this family. “I did it for love of you,” he said.
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