Thames Darrell MUST die. 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. This species of madness cannot properly be attributed to his illness, though its accent might be. We can’t be lovers in the ordinary sense, but we can be great and intimate friends. I suspect he has a bit of vanity. He was six blocks away from his home, a ten story building apparently made solely of glass.
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