Valade, who was standing by her chair, glancing around the packed pink-papered saloon with a heavy frown on his face, was a thickset man of coarse, reddened feature, with a discontented air. Swiftly following the sound of knocking, she crossed right and passed through a door near the windows—and found herself in the bookroom. If you could see how it gives them souls, women who have taken things for granted, who have given themselves up altogether to pettiness and vanity. You don't notice the heat; but it is always there, pressing down. You may not know it, but it's easier to find a guy that's gone far than it is when he lays dogo in little old New York. Even the stars were strangers. The boiling under her stern, however, told him nothing. But no more of that. I won’t try.
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