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His tongue was more ready, his wit more keen than usual. Who is to say that I am not André Valade, an obscure relation of the late vicomte. She crept out of the shadows. She opened her suitcase—new and smelling strongly of leather—and took out of it a book, dogeared and precariously held together, bound in faded blue cloth and bearing the inscription: The Universal Handbook. ‘But I ain’t been idle, miss, I swear it.
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