“Sir John!” Annabel gasped. From under his pillow he dragged forth the key to the trunk. You will have a bungalow to yourself," continued McClintock, "and your morning meal will be your own affair. Who is to say that I am not André Valade, an obscure relation of the late vicomte. "What is your name?" To-day, however, he broke the monotony. I thank God for His sunlight on your face. His own peculiar genius—a miracle key to the hidden things in men's souls—had given him this immediate and astonishing illumination.
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