There lay upon this stand a book bound in limp black leather—the Holy Bible. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson. ‘How could you possibly know it?’ ‘I know it,’ Lucilla told him frostily, ‘because Dorothée told me that Madame Valade went off with Gerald positively purring in her ear—which is a thing he never does—and came back with him looking like the cat after cream.
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