Mother? Suzanne Valade, her mother? With deliberation, he spoke. The glance, which he threw at the door, was singularly expressive of his character: it was a mixture of alarm, effrontery, and resolution. Where the devil have you hidden all those weapons? Don’t tell me you’ve got ’em with you. For a few days she was fascinated by the place, exploring the moldy rooms, the weird treasures hiding in forgotten trousseaus. Love and lavender, he thought, perhaps wistfully. I hate this part of the world.
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