Chapter VI A QUESTION OF IDENTIFICATION The little man with the closely-cropped beard and hair looked at her keenly through his gold eye-glasses. Then her eyes flashed. "Let me look at the paper. "If any one's to blame, it's me. His voice had broken. That would come later. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. ‘Up, Jacques, up,’ she ordered. ’ He regarded her thoughtfully.
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