‘She? Sa femme? That is the game then? That she could dare to take my place, that salope. The joy of being loved thrilled her as nothing before had ever done, a curious abstract joy which had nothing in it at that moment of regret or even pity. She was vehemently impatient—she did not clearly know for what—to do, to be, to experience. . The world had not passed by but had gone around it in a tremendous half-circle. I don’t care.
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