At the door through which she had entered the room stood the so-called Monsieur Valade. He was always anticipating, stepping into the future, torturing himself with non-existent troubles. She cleaned everything, wiped every surface, mopped and scrubbed every last drop of blood. Then Ramage appeared with effusion, and ushered her into his inner apartment. She had begun to care about her appearance again, looking into the glass he gave her, a thing nearly priceless that was bordered in intricate golden filigree and rubies. ” “You are jealous,” she declared contemptuously.
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