Madame Valade was that kind of woman. She came in while he was still in the throes, conviction battling with commonsense, his own apprehension. That night in Paris I saw on the bills ‘Fatal Motor Accidents. Other phrases returned now, like echoes. “What ought she to do?” “Suppose you—” “Yes, suppose I—” He felt that his advice was being asked. She had adored the stupid thing, and kept it in her pocket for about ten years. Alice was going to be Mrs.
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