There was the motor accident, too. 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. I tried to have it out with him, but he wouldn’t have it out. “I am sure, Anna,” she said, “I do not see why we should conceal the truth from you. 1 through 1.
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