But his astonishment would have been great indeed had he known that not even her father had ever caressed her, either with lips or with hands. Valade, who was standing by her chair, glancing around the packed pink-papered saloon with a heavy frown on his face, was a thickset man of coarse, reddened feature, with a discontented air. We’re partly human beings and partly females in suspense. This was the first young man who had drawn from her something more than speculative interest. 13 Montague Street. CHAPTER XIX.
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