‘A little promenade, madame?’ Madame Valade rose from the chintz-covered chair with alacrity and a little rustle of her silken petticoats. Nothing to check their proceedings but a declining habit of telling the truth and the limitations of their imaginations. She felt as if she had struck them unawares. One OUGHT to want to please her. There were moments when she doubted whether the whole mass of movements and societies and gatherings and talks was not simply one coherent spectacle of failure protecting itself from abjection by the glamour of its own assertions. It took all my self control not to let my hands wander.
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