But De Maupassant—sheer off! Stick to Dickens and Thackeray and Hugo. Her knees shook, her breath came fast, she almost felt the lurid effect of those tiny patches of rouge upon her pallor-stricken cheeks. It was painful to want him so much. “Here is my card. She got up, drew up her blind, and stared out of window at a dawn-cold vision of chimneys for a time, and then went and sat on the edge of her bed. I’m behaving shockingly, I know.
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