Valade, who was standing by her chair, glancing around the packed pink-papered saloon with a heavy frown on his face, was a thickset man of coarse, reddened feature, with a discontented air. It reminded her viscerally of her subhuman status, stripped away of the pretenses of art, intellect, and nicety. The stranger turned his head at the sound. “You see, it comes after all,” she continued, “from certain original convictions which have become my religion. ‘Oh, peste. A Madame Valade and her husband. .
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