The buboes broke and God took Lucia's mother. And I don’t. She stole the opportunity to peer at his departing figure from the closed curtains of the front room window, his shoulders slumped forward, his posture and his ego slightly deflated. In a moment or two, Madame Valade recovered her sangfroid. But the mere recognition of his son’s signature was enough to stoke the fires of his long-held rage. “Why should one pretend?” she whispered. Everywhere I went and rapped at a door I found behind it another dreadful dingy woman—another fallen queen, I suppose— dingier than the last, dirty, you know, in grain.
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