Ramage’s bitterness passed as abruptly as his aggression. “Perhaps one talks nonsense about a woman’s instinct,” she said. She assumed with a kind of mesmeric force all the propositions that Ann Veronica wanted her to define. He guided her hand to his crotch, which had already grown in size. ‘A little promenade, madame?’ Madame Valade rose from the chintz-covered chair with alacrity and a little rustle of her silken petticoats. She fell with a plop onto her rear end in the mud and sat dumbly like a statue, water eddying around her.
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