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He could not see these two shrinking misses capering about in a nun’s habit and brandishing a defiant pistol. She was posing before the mirror, critically, miserably, defensively, and perhaps bewilderedly. You might trust me with the Chevalier himself,—I'd never betray him. Mother? Suzanne Valade, her mother? With deliberation, he spoke. Upon my word—you are Miss Pellissier, aren’t you?” “I certainly am,” she admitted. You have been useful to me, or I would not have spared you thus long.
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