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He wanted to hate this man who had come between him and his desires. He was convinced that he had done so, convinced that but for this American, Jeanne St. Clair would have listened to him. His worth against Bruslart's infamy must have appealed to her, had this man not come into her world. "I know the truth," he said slowly, "I have had it from mademoiselle herself.
It was to have been his love against Lucien Bruslart's. To plead that would have been easy, and surely the woman must have listened, yes, and recognized the true from the false. This cursed American had altered the game; still, he was a man, a man of his word. He had promised to plead for him. He should do it.
"I could love that man," Latour mused as he went towards the Rue Valette afterwards. "Yet I must spy upon him and deceive him if I can. Mademoiselle is in Paris and he knows where she is hidden. He is Bruslart's friend, and Bruslart I hate." He climbed the stairs to his room to find Sabatier waiting for him on the landing.
I should have balked his intention and brought you here, had it not been for the bungling of those who served me, and the courage of this man Barrington who has played Bruslart's game for him." "Unwittingly," said Jeanne. "I grant that Lucien Bruslart is not a worthy man; you must not class the other with him."
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