‘But this Englishwoman,’ asked the man Valade, his puzzlement plain to see, ‘who was she?’ The question irritated Charvill. Set the boy free. ‘At last,’ he cried, ‘I have found you!’ He would listen to nothing. She looked directly at his face, his perpetually graying hair, his hawkish nose, his long cheekbones. One of these, a lady, evidently a confirmed invalid, and attired in deep mourning, reclined upon a sort of couch, or easy chair, set on wheels, with her head supported by cushions, and her feet resting upon a velvet footstool.
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