She took the piece of paper and unfolded it in the safety of her lap. She wished she had not stood up. “I heard that she had chucked her show at the French places and gone in for a reform all round. The next weekend arrived and she made her decision. She saw the moonlit waters, the black shadow of the proa, the moon-fire that ran down the far edge of the bellying sail, the silent natives: no sound except the slapping of the outrigger and the low sibilant murmur of water falling away from the sides—and the beating of her heart. “I won’t have you quarrelling and crying in the Avenue,” he said. The drawers at the moment were too busy to attend to her, and she would have seized the opportunity of examining, unperceived, the assemblage within, through a little curtained window that overlooked the adjoining chamber, if an impediment had not existed in the shape of Baptist Kettleby, whose portly person entirely obscured the view. ” “It was behind the Place de Vendome, on the other side from the Ritz.
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