It was one of those old sliding trap affairs, narrow and steep of descent. As he passed along the main thoroughfare, he heard his own name pronounced, and found that it was a hawker, crying a penny history of his escapes. ‘How could you possibly know it?’ ‘I know it,’ Lucilla told him frostily, ‘because Dorothée told me that Madame Valade went off with Gerald positively purring in her ear—which is a thing he never does—and came back with him looking like the cat after cream. She was on the rim of civilization, entering, as Spurlock was on the rim, preparing to make his exit. “I heard the clock strike as I crossed the square,” she answered. “Oh, you can act!” she cried. Something in her lack of embarrassment irritated him.
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