" The girl fished into the bottle for an olive. It was one of the secret troubles of her mind, this grotesque twist her ideas would sometimes take, as though they rebelled and rioted. It is that you cannot refuse her sanctuary. She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening—it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father’s house in Morningside Park—thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action. He was not addicted to monologue, and the only audible comment he permitted himself at first upon a universe that was evidently anything but satisfactory to him that afternoon, was one compact and entirely unassigned “Damn!” The word must have had some gratifying quality, because he repeated it. ‘And take you this sword. He laughed reassuringly. I am not comfortable,’ complained Madame Valade. She held out her arms to him and smiled. The vicomte has, he say, enough femmes in his hands. .
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