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That was supposed to be Madame Valade. The impassivity of her features changed at last. To vault over the pews was the work of a moment; and having gained the entry leading to the Red Room he passed through the first door; his progress being only impeded by the pile of broken stones, which he himself had raised. “You are not going out—this evening, I trust,” that lady asked, a trifle dismayed. .
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