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"Is there any reason that allows you to presume that my wife is still alive?" "There are very serious reasons, I might say, incontestable reasons." M. d'Andeville shrugged his shoulders and said, in a firm voice: "My wife died in my arms. My lips touched her icy hands, felt that chill of death which is so horrible in those we love. I myself dressed her, as she had asked, in her wedding gown; and I was there when they nailed down the coffin. Anything else?" Paul listened to him and thought to himself: "Has he spoken the truth? Yes, he has; and still how can I admit . . . ?" Speaking more imperiously, M. d'Andeville repeated: "Anything else?" "Yes," said Paul, "one more question. There was a portrait in the Comtesse d'Andeville's boudoir: was that her portrait?" "Certainly, her full