Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. “I won’t have you quarrelling and crying in the Avenue,” he said. He drew her closer. “Thank you. It was empty. She drank and drank until his body was a lifeless husk, as light as a mannequin, virtually hollow of all but the fluid in his bones. If it were but the question of his reason for marrying her, the solution would have been simple.
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