At a little after five, on that day, four horses dashed round the corner of the Old Bailey, and drew up before the door of the Lodge. ‘A little promenade, madame?’ Madame Valade rose from the chintz-covered chair with alacrity and a little rustle of her silken petticoats. E. Ann Veronica stared at his foolish, propitiatory smile, his hungry gaze, through one moment of amazement, then stepped aside and went on her way with a quickened step. “Let us sit down for a moment,” he had said. “I find it very hard to write this letter.
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