Who is to say that I am not André Valade, an obscure relation of the late vicomte. He was a civil servant of some standing, and after a previous conversation upon aesthetics of a sententious, nebulous, and sympathetic character, he had sent her a small volume, which he described as the fruits of his leisure and which was as a matter of fact rather carefully finished verse. ’ With pretty imperiousness, she gestured to the bed beside her. “There are some people,” he said at last, “who seem fated to carry on their shoulders the burdens of other people.
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