‘I lived with the Valades for some years. ‘A little promenade, madame?’ Madame Valade rose from the chintz-covered chair with alacrity and a little rustle of her silken petticoats. "His life—or yours?" "No one shall harm you more, my dear," cried Lady Trafford. Everywhere I went and rapped at a door I found behind it another dreadful dingy woman—another fallen queen, I suppose— dingier than the last, dirty, you know, in grain. This man and he were alike, and about the same age. Somehow to-night—I don’t know. Taber? There is a possibility.
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