The room was worse than pokey, it was shabby; and the view from the window, of chimney pots and slate roofs, wholly uninspiring. He looked exactly as she had dreamed him, handsome, rigidly dressed in a black suit, his hair still half gray, his eyes green and flashing like a cat’s. Slowly and reluctantly she came to realize that Vivie Warren was what is called an “ideal. ‘He can’t be Valade, that’s certain,’ mused Gerald, unheeding. But what I do is based upon the fact that he is one of those individuals who are conscience-driven. Their small talk continued. She leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes. I can smell you.
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