The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. "As yet," pursued the stranger, "Sir Montacute had placed no limit to his son's expenditure. He rose slowly and extended it. Why were you following Valade?’ She shrugged and turned away, moving as if to seek escape among the bookshelves all about one corner of the room.
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