” He made a little noise in his throat as if something had cried out within him, and for a time they were both too full for speech. In a moment or two, Madame Valade recovered her sangfroid. He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. For hours he seemed to have pleasant dreams of open skies and airplanes, but then the dreams would disintegrate into fleshy charnel house nightmares where he could hear her calling to him through a fog. With a finger crooked in his side-pocket, she measured her step with his, her senses still dizzy from the echo of the magic sounds. Pipes were lighted; and Mr.
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