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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. Her cheeks flushed a dull red. There is something that inspires a feeling of inexpressible melancholy in sailing on a dark night upon the Thames. You deal with her. Let alone a girl. ‘Here you, Pottiswick. Outside the post-office stood a nohatted, blond young man in gray flannels, who was elaborately affixing a stamp to a letter. With a well-simulated unconcern and a heightened color she finished her breakfast. She seemed just as stiff and shy as a girl ought to be, Lady Palsworthy thought, neither garrulous nor unready, and free from nearly all the heavy aggressiveness, the overgrown, overblown quality, the egotism and want of consideration of the typical modern girl.

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