Who is to say that I am not André Valade, an obscure relation of the late vicomte. Mother? Suzanne Valade, her mother? With deliberation, he spoke. Everybody breathed a collective sigh of relief in the neighborhood, no one wanted to see how those kids would grow up. "Are you a poltroon, after all?" "That's it! I ought to have died that night!" "Or is there a taint of insanity in your family history? Alone and practically penniless like yourself! You weren't even stirred by gratitude. ’ ‘Lord,’ Gerald murmured, awed more by the outspokenness of his hostess than by what she had said.
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