In the middle of the little town stood the shop of a Jew dealer in old clothes. ‘Gérard, do not go,’ she cried, breathless. " "But why? In the name of God, why? Your flesh and blood! Have you never loved anything?" "Are you indeed my daughter's lawful husband?" Enschede countered. Paris looms behind—a tragedy of strange recollections—here she emerges Phœnix-like, subtly developed, a flawless woman, beautiful, self-reliant, witty, a woman with the strange gift of making all others beside her seem plain or vulgar. She looked at him confusedly, his black hair glinting under the dim lights.
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