The next morning came a compact letter from her father. He couldn't be in better hands than those in which he has placed himself. Manning leaned forward on the table, talking discursively on the probable brilliance of their married life. 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 didn’t get it, why she put on the innocent act. ‘It is, you understand, that Monsieur Charvill did not—how do you say in English?—having an eye to an eye—’ ‘Didn’t see eye to eye with the Vicomte Valade? That I can well believe.
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