‘A little promenade, madame?’ Madame Valade rose from the chintz-covered chair with alacrity and a little rustle of her silken petticoats. Promise me that you’ll contact the police if she ever calls you on the phone, or worse, shows up at your school. But I don't look for peace on this side the grave. He drove her home that night, kissing her again and again at stoplights.
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