Lady Trafford, supposed to be childless, broken in health and spirits, frail both in mind and body, is not likely to make another marriage. Do not believe it, Madam. Valade, who was standing by her chair, glancing around the packed pink-papered saloon with a heavy frown on his face, was a thickset man of coarse, reddened feature, with a discontented air. A cool gray light illuminated small portions of the stone floor. I wanted it badly. McClintock, striking a match to relight his cigar, broke the spell. “Through there,” he said, and pointed with the pamphlet he was carrying.
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