Her safety lay in pretense—that what she saw was as a tale twice told. I can’t do it even decently myself, and I dare not run the risk of ruining all my clothes. ‘A little promenade, madame?’ Madame Valade rose from the chintz-covered chair with alacrity and a little rustle of her silken petticoats. You, for instance, you live, you are not afraid to live.
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