Both started. But it was extraordinary what seemingly irrelevant things could restore her to the thought of Capes again. The thought of you, wandering from pillar to post, believing yourself hunted—it tore my old heart to pieces! For I knew you. Who is to say that I am not André Valade, an obscure relation of the late vicomte. I didn’t ought to have sent for him. I was helpless. She could think of nothing more to say. But what the deuce! He was human; he was a machine only when on the hunt.
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