At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. A short flight of steps brought him to a dark passage, into which he plunged. An entire forest’s array of meats was served in courses brought out to the table. She broke this promise when she told me that my mother was this Mary, and not Suzanne Valade at all. “Hey,” he said, his eyes slowly adjusting to the soft blackness. Never for a moment had violence come between these two since long ago he had, in spite of her mother’s protest in the background, carried her kicking and squalling to the nursery for some forgotten crime. They then swiftly mounted the stairs, and stopped before the audience-chamber. What hotel should she go to? If she told a cabman to drive to an hotel, any hotel, what would he do—or say? He might drive to something dreadfully expensive, and not at all the quiet sort of thing she required. Montressor’s guests. ‘Comment? You have then met this Suzanne?’ The woman turned a deep red.
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