‘A little promenade, madame?’ Madame Valade rose from the chintz-covered chair with alacrity and a little rustle of her silken petticoats. Cursed him for his devotion that had made him come back for her, only to get himself shot by the fiendish Gosse. There were lines in her face that age had not put there. A small handgun bobbed at the end of it, aimed at Sheila. When he had finished he took up the wine list and ordered a bottle of dry champagne. She went on her way now no longer dreaming and appreciative, but disturbed and unwillingly observant behind her mask of serene contentment.
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