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That was supposed to be Madame Valade. “I don’t love him,” said Ann Veronica, getting a gleam. “I don’t care a rap for remembering. To-night all London believes that he was your husband. ‘I do not know your Gérard. Recognising the handwriting, he glanced swiftly at the signature, and uttering an explosive curse, cast the paper from him. ‘He could have little comfort there, indeed. Meysey Hill—never your wife. No means were neglected to accomplish this end.
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