He did not know what her game was, although he had a shrewd suspicion that she had been co-opted into it by her supposed husband, the soi-disant Valade. She flailed against the doctor’s grip but after what seemed an eternity of kicking and flailing, amazingly, he had not seemed weakened in the slightest by her resistance. To her mind, recalling the picture of him the night before, there had been something tragic in the grim silent manner of his tippling. She gave me an impression of a sort of patched quilt; little bits of patterned stuff coming up again and again.
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