‘A little promenade, madame?’ Madame Valade rose from the chintz-covered chair with alacrity and a little rustle of her silken petticoats. Small wonder she had learned to be self-reliant. There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets. Endless complications ensue when both sisters return to London. “You need not be alarmed,” he said.
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