Then he threw the letter at me. Somewhere she had read that it was the proper thing to do and that men liked to be alone with their tobacco. She could not bear the shame of it. But the rise of the chest was quite perceptible now. Who is to say that I am not André Valade, an obscure relation of the late vicomte. Below her stretched a valley of rich meadowland, of yellow cornfields, and beyond moorland hillside glorious with purple heather and golden gorse.
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