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“The jade!” raged José. “The jade! The graceless minx! Trust me.” Her voice vibrated. “She shall never be free. Never!” Here she became maudlin. “But, Pierre dear, I shall not receive the news. It is not to be thought of ...”

“Perhaps not,” said Pierre shortly, taking his leave. “But remember my words. I trust you to see justice done.”

“Never fear,” cried José, her pig eyes gleaming....

Finally, the steeple-jack spoke with his wife.

He chose their last night together.

It was a stifling evening: such air as found its way into their apartment seemed to be stale: odours of neighbouring kitchens rose up stagnant. Out of the roar of the traffic continual cries of newsvendors stood as syrens out of a gale.

Madeleine sat by a window, sewing hard. Lacaze lounged upon a settee, smoking calmly and oiling a pair of boots.

My lady finished her stitching and cut the thread. Then she held up her work and turned it about. After a moment she rose and crossed to her husband.

“Is that what you want, Pierre? It does not look very well, but I think it will wear. If it is right, I will do the other shoulder.”