Which are you—Valade or Charvill? Or, no, let me guess. Cowering in a corner upon a heap of straw sat his unfortunate mother, the complete wreck of what she had been. She wore a plain black dress, reaching almost to her throat—her small oval face, with the large brown eyes, was colourless, delicately expressive, yet with something mysterious in its Sphinx-like immobility.
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