‘A little promenade, madame?’ Madame Valade rose from the chintz-covered chair with alacrity and a little rustle of her silken petticoats. At last he could bear it no longer. She dropped on her knees by his side, and gently unbuttoned his waistcoat. E. Anna, in her strange striking way, was radiantly beautiful. “This wonderful affection of yours for my sister, does it date from your first meeting with her in Paris?” He hesitated. He sent me flowers. Her back stiffened.
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