’ Gerald eyed her. Think of those days in Paris. I think that there is no better friend for a girl than a man rather older than herself. There were the burnt papers still in the grate. She had gladly lowered her eyes as she had been instructed to in front of the fine ladies and lords, as she was more interested in their clothing and fripperies than their faces. She would take the items with her; bury the items and her bloodstained clothes in one of the many sinkholes in the huge landfill/garbage dump on the south side of town. She crouched beneath a stump, her extremities twitching as the sun set orange and blue beyond the lace of iron-black trees. Gerald, I mean, not Madame Valade. "The Dutchman was right, after all. What a contrast did the lovely scene she now gazed upon present to the squalid neighbourhood she had recently quitted! On all sides, expanded prospects of country the most exquisite and most varied.
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