‘A little promenade, madame?’ Madame Valade rose from the chintz-covered chair with alacrity and a little rustle of her silken petticoats. I’ll protect you!” He cried. ’ A panel slid open and she stepped into the relative light of the little dressingroom, Kimble close behind her. This laughter released something that had been striving for expression—her own natural buoyancy. It was dusty, with dirty clothing strewn about, a cracked basin thick with grime on the rickety dresser, and a film of grease on the leaded casement. Behind her stood Caliban, chuckling to himself, and grinning from ear to ear.
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