Beyond the steps was a pole-chair in readiness. "My lips would belie my heart were I to refuse you. “Miserable bounder,” he murmured. Monsieur Valade heaved a gusty sigh, and Gerald, with heavy diplomacy and a forced heartiness of manner, turned the subject. Or was that perhaps because his business in Piccadilly the other day had gone awry? Perhaps Brewis Charvill had not welcomed him with open arms. There, that sounds frightfully involved, doesn’t it, but perhaps you can make out what I mean.
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