His complexion was pale; and there was something sinister in the expression of his large black eyes. “We have a small studio,” she murmured, “in the Rue de St. 8. Did you grow up at the Valade estates? You were born a Valade, I take it, even though your father is English. Only the night before, in the dining room of the Hong-Kong Hotel, she had watched him empty glass after glass of whisky, and shudder and shudder.
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