There must be something behind the missioner's actions, something of which the girl knew nothing nor suspected. But in the train going home her aunt reasoned it out. 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. "What has delayed you?" demanded the knight impatiently. The mode of destruction makes no difference.
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