” She caressed his cheek seductively with her left palm and he closed his eyes in dreamy anticipation. ‘A little promenade, madame?’ Madame Valade rose from the chintz-covered chair with alacrity and a little rustle of her silken petticoats. I—I hurt myself. She looked directly at his face, his perpetually graying hair, his hawkish nose, his long cheekbones. She wished he could smoke and dull his nerves a little. He was unusually absurd and ready, and all the time it seemed to Ann Veronica as a delightful possibility, as a thing not indeed to be entertained seriously, but to be half furtively felt, that he was being so agreeable because she had come back again.
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