‘But this Englishwoman,’ asked the man Valade, his puzzlement plain to see, ‘who was she?’ The question irritated Charvill. I want you to be my lover. And it's uncanny. The black, meantime, began to ply his hammer, and speedily unriveted the chains. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself.
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