His gaze drawn, Gerald watched him dip to pick up a crushed square of white linen and a starched object that resembled a helmet. ‘How disappointing,’ mourned Gerald. ‘A little promenade, madame?’ Madame Valade rose from the chintz-covered chair with alacrity and a little rustle of her silken petticoats. “The truth!” Annabel bent over her and whispered in her sister’s ear. ‘You!’ ‘Yes, it is I, mademoiselle,’ he continued in his own tongue.
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