Who is to say that I am not André Valade, an obscure relation of the late vicomte. “Hello, Teddy!” she answered. “I wish I didn’t swear. I speak frankly, because you also know that no possible extremity would induce me to accept help from any living person. She was a small blonde, not handsome, but with a flair for fashion demonstrated by her elegant chemise gown in the very latest Canterbury muslin, with its low décolletage barely concealed under a fine lawn handkerchief set about her shoulders, and decorated with a mauve satin sash at the waist.
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