It was in her eyes—the big thing that comes but once. Gerald took Madame’s hand and kissed the fingers with a little more warmth than punctilio demanded. They heard his footsteps descending the stone staircase, growing fainter and fainter. ‘You were supposed to be nursing him,’ Martha grumbled, ‘and helping him convalesce. That for you!" And she snapped her fingers in his face. A single blanket constituted his sole covering at night. A familiar ache of wanting made itself more insistent in her belly. That was supposed to be Madame Valade.
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