Who is to say that I am not André Valade, an obscure relation of the late vicomte. I’m a soldier, you see. We have lived under the same roof, but our ways seem to have lain wide apart. We can love on a snow cornice, we can love over a pail of whitewash. However, I daresay that we shall come across one another before long. Come!” They went out together and he called a hansom. Nor can we. . . " "'No doubt,'" said Wood, who had again turned over the leaves of the sacred volume—', "no doubt this man is a murderer, whom, though he escaped the seas, yet vengeance suffereth not to live'.
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