“Forgive me,” he said, “but I want to hear it from your sister. He laughed. “To Paris! But why? What do you hope to discover there?” “I do not know,” he answered, “but I am going to see David Courtlaw. And he hazarded a wink at the poet over the paper on which he was sketching. ‘A little promenade, madame?’ Madame Valade rose from the chintz-covered chair with alacrity and a little rustle of her silken petticoats. Even the most sullen and withdrawn were sensitive to the penetrating nastiness of the fog. She was keenly resolved to do well in the school examination, and not to be drowned in the seas of emotion that threatened to submerge her intellectual being. “What ought you to do?” He began to produce his knowledge of the world for her benefit, jerkily and allusively, and with a strong, rank flavor of “savoir faire. Wrenching his hands from her shoulders, she thrust them away and leapt up from the chair.
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