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” “Would you mind telling me,” Anna asked, “how long I knew you in Paris?” He looked at her sideways. She knew his appetite from many a homemade dinner and knew also that he had taken Bitch Vorsack’s comments to heart. I am come to serve you. It doesn’t seem to matter. The night had swallowed him up, but his work on her was done. “You little wretch!” she exclaimed weakly. And her kind of love forgives everything and anything but infidelity. His shirt was unfastened, his vest unbuttoned, his hose ungartered; his feet were stuck into a pair of pantoufles, his arms into a greasy flannel dressing-gown, his head into a thrum-cap, the cap into a tie-periwig, and the wig into a gold-edged hat.
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