Madame Valade was that kind of woman. She was too wrapped up in the sheer joy of playing again; it had 201 been intimate, masturbatory. As she talked she made weak little gestures with her hands, and she thrust her face forward from her bent shoulders; and she peered sometimes at Ann Veronica and sometimes at a photograph of the Axenstrasse, near Fluelen, that hung upon the wall. The theme was a masquerade. ‘Forgive my not rising to greet you,’ she said, holding out a claw-like hand. The house was redolent with the smells of cinnamon baking and the stuffed turkey and marinated pork roast.
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