No matter how often she came across this phase in love stories, there was never anything explanatory: as if all human beings perfectly understood. She took refuge in beating her pillow and inventing insulting epithets for herself. Indeed, it is rather a matter of whose death is close. “You remember the man in Paris who used to follow me about—Meysey Hill they called him?” He nodded. “My dear child,” he said, “with me you need have no apprehension. Raymond Plote would only be missed by his mother.
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