Instead, he could not get beyond these minor details—why she wore the dress, whence she had come, and whither she was bound. ‘A little promenade, madame?’ Madame Valade rose from the chintz-covered chair with alacrity and a little rustle of her silken petticoats. “Do you play an instrument?” “I play the fiddle sometimes. "Come away!" he cried, with the roar of a demon. Plain, wide-mouthed, freckled, and ugly, she was an instantly jealous creature, her saving grace that she took no pains to mask her extreme dislike 47 of petite, pretty girls.
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