He blushed, too, spiritually, as it were. I sang to him, and he was satisfied. To-morrow night —or rather to-night, for we are fast verging on another day—I propose to lure him out of the house by a stratagem which I am sure will prove infallible; and, then, what so easy as to knock him on the head. He can't play cards, either, when he's sober. He pulled her from him to kiss her on the mouth and paused, looking into her face. I consented. I could see his little animal brain churning away, inventing plans for me, formulating his revenge. ‘Espéce de diable,’ she screamed.
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