She rapped again, louder. ‘A little promenade, madame?’ Madame Valade rose from the chintz-covered chair with alacrity and a little rustle of her silken petticoats. “Dear friend,” she said, “do you not think that you are breaking an unspoken compact? I am very sorry. You’re never going to believe this, by the way. ‘Do you need an excuse?’ ‘Oh, you know what doctors are. And when Mr. “She found my collection of witchcraft books under my bed and threw them away. And talking of every conceivable thing. He stood a little anxious and fussy, bothered by the responsibility of her, entirely careless of what her life was or was likely to be, ignoring her thoughts and feelings, ignorant of every fact of importance in her life, explaining everything he could not understand in her as nonsense and perversity, concerned only with a terror of bothers and undesirable situations.
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