The kindly American consul-general had himself taken her to the bank, where her banknotes had been exchanged for a letter of credit, and had thoroughly advised her. He was reaching wearily for some kind of buffer to his harrying conscience. No mother would have sent her daughter into the world with such a wardrobe. She romanticized, imagining a life on the High Seas. 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.
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