The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. “Of course, one lives differently in Paris, but then—Paris is Paris. People who would not go. His voice now had lost its ironies. "Strange!" he continued, as if talking to himself. I’m a female thing at bottom. '—'It's not to be thought of,' says I, thumping the table till every glass on it jingled; 'and I know a way as'll prevent it. E.
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