And turning again, as if the emotions she had churned up kept her on the move, she paced back to the mantel and there stopped, staring at her own reflection in the tarnished mirror. ” She whispered to him. The Wastrel, his eyes full of humorous evil, stood inside the room. ‘A little promenade, madame?’ Madame Valade rose from the chintz-covered chair with alacrity and a little rustle of her silken petticoats. One chance in a thousand, and that would be the girl. "Oh, easily enough," rejoined the other.
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