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The houses they flitted to and from were glutted with hangers-on, servant/mistresses, and errant prostitutes. You’ll end there one day, mark my words. Outside the post-office stood a nohatted, blond young man in gray flannels, who was elaborately affixing a stamp to a letter. “But about last night. He seemed inexorable, and inscrutable as fate itself. Something, then, to appease the wrath of God; something to blunt this persistent agony. Lucy ate without passion. “Who do you think cares for your children as you dally with my husband, Clotilde?” Lucy asked. You will do as I say, or—’ ‘Hoy!’ called Trodger from down the hall.
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