‘Monsieur Charvill,’ pursued Valade, ‘has left the chateau, and since we have heard from him nothing at all, but for the letters to his daughter from Italy. Her father held some printed document in his hand, and appeared not to observe her entry. Her heart ached; and that puzzled her. She goes out and comes home. Did he see him, this Monsieur Charvill?’ ‘I don’t rightly know, miss,’ confessed Kimble. I felt—I felt living in a masked world.
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