"His life—or yours?" "No one shall harm you more, my dear," cried Lady Trafford. ‘Or flew in by balloon, perhaps. . "Your sister is dead," said he, in a deep whisper. The soi-disant Valade held the centre of the room now, only an uncovered but closed card-table, its surface dusty, between him and the suite at the fireplace. She felt that perhaps, in her desire to play an adequate part in the conversation, she had talked rather more freely than she ought to have done, and given him a wrong impression of herself.
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