” He said to her. “He is not—I don’t like him. "I am very wicked," she said. Her eardrums were burning with the echoes of those hideous shouts. You see, we travelled second class, and we are in the least known quarter of Paris. ‘Laisse-moi,’ she threw at him, her brief attack of sobs already ended, although the trace of tears on her cheeks bore witness to its sincerity. “Queer letters he writes,” she said.
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