At the door through which she had entered the room stood the so-called Monsieur Valade. Heaven knows what dim and tawdry conceptions of passion and desire were in that blond cranium, what romance-begotten dreams of intrigue and adventure! but they sufficed, when presently Ann Veronica went out into the darkling street again, to inspire a flitting, dogged pursuit, idiotic, exasperating, indecent. This was no night for the indulgence of dreamy musing. There was no past, no future, only this exhilarating present. "These people are all in league with him," cried the latter.
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