’ Madame Valade reseated herself, and Gerald set himself to flatter her into relaxation again. "You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. He was snoring stupidly. And, if I can render you any service, you may command me. The slack of her ridinghabit and full under-petticoats was gathered into her left hand, and her booted ankles were visible as she held the skirts well out of her way. The worst was over now. It is a precaution merely. ‘Sapristi,’ he gasped. He sent a speculative glance at the immobile yellow face. But perhaps he was right not to tell you the truth.
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