“Of course, one lives differently in Paris, but then—Paris is Paris. You’re dealing with me now, not Gerald. And, if I'd my own way, I'd drown 'em all like a litter o' puppies. Spurling, as if struck by a sudden idea. After all, old P. And look down, so. Be a good wife to him. The Widgett mental furniture was perhaps worn and shabby, but there it was before you, undisguised, fading visibly in an almost pitiless sunlight. ” “My wife was astounded—wounded beyond measure. Why do you think I’m indulging in all this very un-English love talk?’ ‘But you are idiot, Gérard.
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