The two went upstairs to Michelle's bedroom. ‘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. The mother was far more real to her than the father; the ghostly far more substantial than the living form. Listening attentively, he fancied he heard the breathing of some one near him, and moved cautiously in the opposite direction.
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