” “Well, fuck you too. I had left Paris. —'How so?' says I. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. Recognising the handwriting, he glanced swiftly at the signature, and uttering an explosive curse, cast the paper from him. “Or I know another one who wears cologne. I owe his mother one, and will repay the debt, with interest, to her son.
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