‘A little promenade, madame?’ Madame Valade rose from the chintz-covered chair with alacrity and a little rustle of her silken petticoats. You do not make me afraid like this. The true creative mind is always returning to battle; defeats are only temporary setbacks. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. She could feel his breath on her skin, every hair on her arms and neck raised in response. ’ Then all at once remembrance made her smile.
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