“The ones Cariolus did for me. There were moments when she doubted whether the whole mass of movements and societies and gatherings and talks was not simply one coherent spectacle of failure protecting itself from abjection by the glamour of its own assertions. ‘Is she the Frenchie we’ve been watching for then, sir?’ The lady’s furious features turned on this new target. ” Her reverie broke, and she found herself still in front of the looking glass, a barrette hanging loosely from her hair. The comtesse always felt Madame Valade to be not of her class, of course. She would then hear his feet pounding up the steps and he would burst into whatever room she was sitting in and say, “There she is! My wife! Hiding her beauty from the world!” He would then run to her, grab her book or embroidery and unceremoniously toss them to the floor. My foster mother, Janine, wasn’t much fatter.
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