Lucy could see the resemblance of Martin to both of his parents as plain as day. Mother? Suzanne Valade, her mother? With deliberation, he spoke. “I admired your sister in Paris,” he answered, “but I do not believe that I regard her now as altogether the same person. She was curious to know why he had boarded a dingy train instead of hailing a cab or his own private chauffeur like the others in expensive suits were doing.
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