Who is to say that I am not André Valade, an obscure relation of the late vicomte. She ignored his question. ” He chuckled, wincing at the thought. ” She looked at him with uplifted eyebrows—a look of whimsical incredulity. The beautiful gowns and the flashing bare shoulders and arms of the women had disturbed and distressed her. ‘Peste,’ she wailed, as Emile dropped to the floor, ducking down.
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