’ She let out a peal of laughter. She sat on the edge of the bed —the wardress was too busy with the flood of arrivals that day to discover that she had it down—and her skin was shivering from the contact of these garments. “MY DEAR DAUGHTER,” it ran,—“Here, on the verge of the season of forgiveness I hold out a last hand to you in the hope of a reconciliation. The twenty pounds burned with avidity. The comtesse always felt Madame Valade to be not of her class, of course.
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