She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. 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. From the first of these alighted Thames, or, as he must now be styled, the Marquis de Chatillon.
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