E. “But I am sorry,” she exclaimed. Who is to say that I am not André Valade, an obscure relation of the late vicomte. Using the shirt, she cleaned away the blood. He was a good foster dad that had never so much as leered at her, not even once. But I’m not a slut either, if that’s what you think. I loitered in the shop as you chatted with the butcher’s girl. The ruse succeeded almost beyond his expectation. Nor was he long in making it available. Ann Veronica, who knew her dress became her, dropped a curtsy to her father’s regard.
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