Then she sang. A stout wooden shutter, opening inwardly, being removed, disclosed a grating of iron bars. Lucy wore it every day from then on. 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. His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love. He stopped before her suddenly.
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