In one angle of the room stood a disused fire-place, with a rusty grate and broken chimney-piece; in the other there was a sort of box, contrived between the wall and the boards, that looked like an apology for a cupboard. Supper was over. ‘This, as you see, is an identity for your cousin, André Valade. The emerald wings, slashed with scarlet and yellow, wheeling and swooping about her head, there among the wild plantain. Perhaps Ramage was the more astonished. So the world is choked with waste and waiting daughters.
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