’ The full story—or as much as Gerald knew—of Valade’s machinations shocked the old lady so much that she was obliged to recruit her strength with a refill from the Madeira decanter. " "It wasn't the fumes of whisky that toppled him out of his chair. Gay," he added, turning to the poet. "A little, Sir," replied the executioner, with a grim smile. Reverse psychology or something, it’s like she was trying to draw him nearer by pushing him away.
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