” Michelle said. She smiled mechanically at the audience, holding her violin limply, feeling the hot lights on her made-up face. One glance swept across the place and it was immediately apparent that Pottiswick had not, this time, been mistaken. The soi-disant Valade held the centre of the room now, only an uncovered but closed card-table, its surface dusty, between him and the suite at the fireplace. Angelina's distress over these mischances was pathetic. If he laid his own suspicions boldly before the girl, and in the end the boy came clean, he would always be haunted by the witless cruelty of the act. That’s the fact of the matter.
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