"Thus," replied the prize-fighter. Her voice seemed to come from a long way off. You creep around in a nun’s habit, peering into a private ballroom. It plucked shingles from the school building, threatening to shake them all loose one by one like rotting teeth. A man is so apt to—to take women a little too lightly. Things were thrown here and there, to be taken up, or again cast aside, as the whim arose; while the broken-backed chairs and crazy table bore the marks of many a conflict. Dizzily, she grabbed at the mantel for support and, resting her head on her hands, paid no heed to a betraying sound behind her—until an unexpected arm encircled her. Afterwards we started for a motor ride to a place outside Paris for déjeuner, and I suppose the man’s nerve failed him. “I wish you and I had drunk that love potion,” he said.
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