” “Perhaps you remember me, Miss Pellissier,” the second young man interposed. “She’s sensitive soul, far too sensitive to be married to an ass like Gianfrancesco. She mentioned, with familiar respect, Christ and Buddha and Shelley and Nietzsche and Plato. “When can we be alone together?” She asked him, never loosening her grip. “In a sort of beautiful garden-close—wearing lovely dresses and picking beautiful flowers?” “Ah! If one could!” “While those other girls trudge to business and those other women let lodgings.
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