"Brother," cried Lady Trafford, her eye blazing with unnatural light, and her cheek suffused with a crimson stain: "Brother," she cried, lifting her thin fingers towards Heaven, "as God shall judge me, I was wedded to that murdered man!" "A lie!" ejaculated Sir Rowland, furiously; "a black, and damning lie!" "It is the truth," replied his sister, falling backwards upon the couch. ‘He isn’t Valade, and the Comtesse de St Erme is absolutely furious. I’ve been smoking cigarettes in the preparation-room and thinking this out. You must have figured that out by now.
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