She tried gentle words with him, beguiling perfumes, even slipped aphrodisiac tisanes into his soup. He might have been a complete innocent, she did not know and did not bother to find out. Don’t you know I disinherited the rogue?’ ‘This we knew, milor’,’ said Valade. “I hope that Mr. 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. “Sit down,” he said, and perused—“perused” is the word for it—for some moments.
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