Sydney was strumming over a new song which stood upon the piano. ‘Adieu, imbecile,’ she threw at him gleefully. Living, he knew that he would never send that letter. ‘Pardon, milor’,’ said Valade, ‘but Monsieur Charvill, he was not at fault. "You have betrayed me," said he, in a deep whisper, to his companion; "but you shall reap the reward of your treachery.
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