White caught her eye, and smiled benignly down the table. The first of these, whom he addressed as Mr. ‘But, Gérard—’ ‘Don’t start arguing,’ he said in a tone that brooked no defiance. A little smothered cry broke from her lips—the curtains were thrown aside and a man stepped out. It was precious for two reasons: it was the photograph of her beautiful mother whom she could not remember, and it would identify her to the aunt in Hartford. Those I don’t mind, though, the games. This was irregular.
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