But the general was turning on him, the hint of emotion wiped from his lined features. Profligate women are never reclaimed. He stared at her breasts while he touched them. On the next morning—Sunday—the day on which he expected his mother's funeral to take place, he set out along the Harrow Road. “Dear husband,” she murmured. . Then Valade—was the man as big a fool as Nicholas?—tried again.
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