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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. If Ray left the house, it would be easy. At last some anodyne formed itself from these exercises, and, with eyelashes wet with such feeble tears as only three-o’clock-in-the-morning pathos can distil, she fell asleep. She raised this with the air of a conspirator unmasking, and displayed a tear-flushed face. Hetty, looking out of the window—she always smoked her after-breakfast cigarette at the window for the benefit of the less advanced section of Morningside Park society—and trying not to raise objections, saw Miss Stanley going down toward the shops. The prisoner, however, submitted more quietly than was anticipated. Her hair was of the darkest brown, and finest texture; and, when unloosed, hung down to her heels.
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