That night in Paris I saw on the bills ‘Fatal Motor Accidents. For a time she looked at no more apartments, and walked through gaunt and ill-cleaned streets, through the sordid under side of life, perplexed and troubled, ashamed of her previous obtuseness. You know that I am practically destitute, without means or any certain knowledge of where my next meal is coming from. The Enschede Bible—the one out of which she read—had been strangely mutilated. What she actually wanted was the present state of affairs to continue indefinitely. D'ye hear.
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