Couldn’t face me with what he’d done, the miserable blackguard. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget. “But don’t you know about me?” he said at last. 59 He was not present during the night the next morning, or the next, or the next. You are welcome to proclaim yourself ‘Alcide’ if you will.
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