She went up-stairs and hesitated between four doors with ground-glass panes, each of which professed “The Women’s Bond of Freedom” in neat black letters. I seek chaos, but not out of choice. “I should imagine,” he said, shaking out a copy of The Times, “that it is your brain which is addled. When he’s found out where she’s staying, I’ll have him keep an eye on Valade’s residence in Paddington, I think. She was an Egyptian, from the magical times. Her new husband had paid for a cadre of escorts back to Mantua.
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