Valade, who was standing by her chair, glancing around the packed pink-papered saloon with a heavy frown on his face, was a thickset man of coarse, reddened feature, with a discontented air. The inherent conscience keeps most of us away from jail, from court, from the gallows; the acquired conscience helps us to preserve the little amenities of daily life. She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances. I’m not a bit afraid of anything—scandal, difficulty, struggle.
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