Only she is not Madame Valade at all. No sooner had they entered the room than Sharples, who waited to usher them in, hastily retreated, closed the door, and turning the key, laughed loudly at the success of his stratagem. He did not disturb any of this litter, but left it as a mark of his prowess. He was smiling under his heavy mustache, and his head was a little on one side as he looked at her. The youth with his hair like Russell cleared his throat and said rather irrelevantly that he knew a man who knew Thomas Bayard Simmons, who had rioted in the Strangers’ Gallery, and then Capes, finding them all distinctly pro-Ann Veronica, if not profeminist, ventured to be perverse, and started a vein of speculation upon the Scotchman’s idea—that there were still hopes of women evolving into something higher. His employer retreated into the further apartment, leaving the door ajar.
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