The house was redolent with the smells of cinnamon baking and the stuffed turkey and marinated pork roast. ‘Pardon, milor’,’ said Valade, ‘but Monsieur Charvill, he was not at fault. And all the third act is love-sick music. Just a friendly polite suggestion. Moving swiftly to the end of the corridor, he pushed open a door at random and entered a large room, which looked to have been a saloon, judging from the faded gilt and crimson wall-paper, a mirror above the fireplace which was surrounded by an ornate gilded frame, now sadly tarnished, and a worn Chippendale sofa with striped upholstery and tasselled cushions. What of Gosse, whom those soldiers had allowed to escape? Hiding—or perhaps gone. There was an eerie sense of brooding menace about an uninhabited establishment. It still failed in something.
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