The youth produced a crumpled-up card from his waistcoat pocket. ‘A little promenade, madame?’ Madame Valade rose from the chintz-covered chair with alacrity and a little rustle of her silken petticoats. ‘And I do understand. And she did not merely affect to be driven—she felt driven. “I believe,” he said slowly, “that I shall do best to throw myself upon your consideration and tell you the truth.
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