“I dare not,” she answered. Every now and then she fingered an ornament, moved a piece of furniture, or rearranged some draperies. Madame Valade was that kind of woman. They walked across a moat of pea gravel that crunched like noisy cereal under their feet. He was unusually absurd and ready, and all the time it seemed to Ann Veronica as a delightful possibility, as a thing not indeed to be entertained seriously, but to be half furtively felt, that he was being so agreeable because she had come back again.
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