At the door through which she had entered the room stood the so-called Monsieur Valade. “I’m sorry, ma’am, to seem the cause of any disturbance, but this,” he pointed to Anna, “is my wife. I've watched this lad—this Sheppard—from infancy; and, though I have apparently concerned myself little about him, I have never lost sight of my purpose. “Who from?” She met his eye for a second and her heart failed her. It wasn’t clear to me that I had to explain. “That’s suicidal bullshit, Lucy. Paintings sold off the walls. " "Ay, marry," replied Wood, with a look that seemed to say that he did not think it required any surprising skill in the art of divination to predict the doom of the individual in question; but whatever opinion he might entertain, he contented himself with inquiring into the grounds of the conjuror's evil augury respecting the infant.
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