“But I am your husband,” he said. The lamp was not yet lit, and in the dim light he bent forward as though trying to look into her averted face. He thought of his wealth for once from a different point of view. “I do not know you,” she said coldly. The latter formed by far the most knavish-looking and unprepossessing portion of the assemblage. She was a woman now to the tips of her fingers; she had said good-bye to her girlhood in the old garden four years and a quarter ago. “Your mother was a Gypsy. The birds were singing blithely amid the trees,—the lowing of the cows resounded from the yard,—a delicious perfume from the garden was wafted through the open window,—at a distance, the church-bells of Willesden were heard tolling for evening service. One of the sampans was hailed, and a ropeladder was lowered. You told me yourself you are not half French, which means the girl calling herself Madame Valade is completely misinformed, so Valade himself cannot know.
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