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I followed you in. Stop it. ” He contradicted himself by plunging into an exposition of motifs. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise. “And you must please not look at me as though I were an executioner,” she declared lightly. CHAPTER VII. You know all this stuff is insured. ‘Lover’s tiff indeed. She wondered what the problem was, why the buildup? She wanted to go to his apartment that evening but stayed herself. As he returned to the table, he put his finger to his nose; and, though he said nothing, he thought he had a much better chance of winning his wager. Her confession was still unmade.
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