“How’s the star?” John’s father asked. “I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice. Who is to say that I am not André Valade, an obscure relation of the late vicomte. To-morrow he might be sorry; but to-day, this hour! She rose, not quickly, but with a dignity which only accentuated her beauty.
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