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“A silly little priestess who knew nothing of life at all until she came to you. Spurling, who had been hastily compounding another bowl of punch. ‘Oh, the Frenchie. The prospect of the gallows would never deter me from taking to the road, if I were so inclined. Moving room to room it was. ‘Ah, there is the little menace itself,’ he drawled, recovering some of his own sangfroid. He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. And then: “Of course! Always. As she went on, the story began to sound more and more like a recitation. How she learned of her heritage I do not know, but you need not imagine that it is greed that drives her.
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