\"No, not really. . ’ Madame gave one of those breathy laughs. You’re splendid stuff, you know, but you’ve got nothing ready to sell. The house was redolent with the smells of cinnamon baking and the stuffed turkey and marinated pork roast. She lay and nibbled at a sprig of dwarf rhododendron. “To the best of my belief, I have never seen the man in my life. It loves to sit on your knee. ’ Madame ventured a glance up at his face, and fluttered her lashes. His age was not far from fifty. Hers was beauty on a large scale no doubt; but it was beauty, nevertheless: and the carpenter thought her eyes as bright, her complexion as blooming, and her figure (if a little more buxom) quite as captivating as when he led her to the altar some twenty years ago.
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