The spinster saw herself growing warm again in the morning sunshine of youth —a flaring ember before the hearth grew cold. ‘Mad as hatters!’ ‘It is you who is mad,’ mademoiselle told him crossly. She wished that the drive would never end, but it was only three miles after all. What was the fellow about? Was he being imposed upon? He watched as the man Valade turned back, spreading his hands in the French way.
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