You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise. For a stunned moment, Emile did not speak. I would not have him know—now—for the world. ” He intoned. “You are very kind to think of it,” she said, “but—don’t you think perhaps—that I had better not?” He smiled indulgently. It was an unspoken curfew in the Beck house on week nights. Glancing idly up at her own window as they had swung round the corner she had seen a strange thing.
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