" As he said this, in a low and mournful, but firm voice, the tears gathered thickly in Winifred's dark eyelashes. “Why can’t you tell people that you are what you are? Why all the secrecy?” She looked beyond the farmhouse. ‘A little promenade, madame?’ Madame Valade rose from the chintz-covered chair with alacrity and a little rustle of her silken petticoats. The great door of the Stone Hall was thrown open, and the sheriffs, preceded by the javelin-men, entered the room. She seemed to be making some sort of inventory.
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