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‘A little promenade, madame?’ Madame Valade rose from the chintz-covered chair with alacrity and a little rustle of her silken petticoats. He delayed the blow till the fortunate conjuncture was past. “You must arrest me!” she gasped, breathlessly, insisting insanely on a point already carried; “you shall!” The police-station at the end seemed to Ann Veronica like a refuge from unnamable disgraces. I know how bad it feels.
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