To be confronted with the girl’s damned Frenchman of a husband was another matter altogether. He was placed in a coach, handcuffed, and heavily fettered, and guarded by a vast posse of officers to Temple Bar, where a fresh relay of constables escorted him to Westminster. The house was invisible from the road, and yet enormous once within view. In a moment or two, Madame Valade recovered her sangfroid. To-night all London believes that he was your husband.
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