‘I thought it must be you,’ cried the woman. Which are you—Valade or Charvill? Or, no, let me guess. “I do not know you,” she said coldly. She quickly strangled him with the piano wire as he looked at her, his lips open as if to scream, but his larynx had been intentionally sliced. A thickly-set, sandy young man, with an unwholesome complexion and grease-smooth hair, had entered the room.
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