Meanwhile, the clergyman, bare-headed and in his surplice, advanced to meet them. “If one half of the stories about Meysey Hill are true,” he answered, “I would not stretch out my little finger to save his life. ‘A little promenade, madame?’ Madame Valade rose from the chintz-covered chair with alacrity and a little rustle of her silken petticoats. I think we rest here until to-morrow?” There was a brief silence. “Just do it.
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