‘A little promenade, madame?’ Madame Valade rose from the chintz-covered chair with alacrity and a little rustle of her silken petticoats. Ruth obeyed, not willingly, but because there was something hypnotic in the authoritative tone. There she would wander about in the kindly darkness. The ledge, along which he crawled, was about a foot wide. He was halfway across the ballroom, where the dancing had ceased for the musicians to take a well-earned rest, when Roding pounced on him.
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