Gerald smiled and excused himself with the Poussaint girl, whose mouth pinched together as she threw a dagger glance at the voluptuous Madame Valade. Hitherto it had been qualified by her conception of all life as a compromise, by her new effort to be unexacting of life. After what seemed like an eternity he turned right onto a dirt road that ended unceremoniously at a copse of leafless trees. She shut the door behind her. ‘It is the life I know. He remembered also, all at once, the very first words he had heard her speak: “I was not born to this. .
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