Gerald smiled and excused himself with the Poussaint girl, whose mouth pinched together as she threw a dagger glance at the voluptuous Madame Valade. He did not pocket it, but sat hefting it lightly from hand to hand, watching the girl thoughtfully. The word "criticism" had no concrete meaning to her then; no more than "compromise. “Pretend,” he said, “that all I have said hasn’t been said.
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