“Gods,” she said, at last, “I’ve done it this time!” “Well!” She took up the neat morocco purse, opened it, and examined the contents. She could have traded it for gold nuggets and lived like a queen for a few weeks, but she did not. "Poor Jack!" cried Winifred, burying her face in her lover's bosom. ‘A little promenade, madame?’ Madame Valade rose from the chintz-covered chair with alacrity and a little rustle of her silken petticoats. Never mind.
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