" The Wastrel laughed. Pshaw!" added he, making an effort to subdue his emotion, "I can't leave you in this way. You don’t deserve it, but he does. These things did not harmonize with his conception of the forthcoming (if unavoidable) interview. For a long time neither spoke again. He stood there, large and dark, enunciating, in his clear voice from beneath his large mustache, clear flat sentences, deliberately kindly. He pushed her to his bed, little more than a cot, and pulled off her clothes. “Are there others like you?” “Yes.
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