He returned figuratively to his bed—the bed he had made for himself and in which he must for ever lie. ‘Monsieur Charvill,’ pursued Valade, ‘has left the chateau, and since we have heard from him nothing at all, but for the letters to his daughter from Italy. I figured it would hurt your feelings if you knew I still talked to him, so I kept my mouth shut. ’ Roding blinked.
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