Women are hypocrites to the last—true only to themselves. "How go you like your quarters, sauce-box?" asked Sharples, in a jeering tone. That blow made me a thief. The entrance was barred against them; and they had the additional mortification of hearing Sheppard's loud laughter at their discomfiture. "How, Sir?" "Except by adoption. Then it was the woman herself who was changed. She laughed softly, and leaned across the table. That was the Frenchie, Valade, surely.
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