She looked at me as though I were some unclean thing, as though my soul were weighted with every sin in the calendar. She looked at him confusedly, his black hair glinting under the dim lights. You're alone, too, child. Your husband could have told you that. “I’d rather go as a chorus-girl,” she said. “She’s my wife,” the man muttered. But I do not need that Gérard attend.
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