That was supposed to be Madame Valade. By chance I went to one who had known you in Paris. He was a thin old man, a wreck in a ruined body, but nothing would induce him to stand in any other way than as stiffly erect as possible like the soldier he had always been, even though he was obliged to lean on his silver-handled cane to do so. It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections.
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