She broke this promise when she told me that my mother was this Mary, and not Suzanne Valade at all. ” “But how can I help it? How can I keep silence?” “Please!” she insisted. Then as she drew nearer paint showed upon her face, and a harsh purpose behind the quiet expression of her open countenance, and a sort of unreality in her splendor betrayed itself for which Ann Veronica could not recall the right word—a word, half understood, that lurked and hid in her mind, the word “meretricious.
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