‘A little promenade, madame?’ Madame Valade rose from the chintz-covered chair with alacrity and a little rustle of her silken petticoats. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. In the pause she realized the attention of the others converged upon her, and that the tears were brimming over her eyes. In fact, it had been anciently the right hand postern under the gate leading towards the city. At the precise period of this history, the Jacobite party was full of hope and confidence.
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