At the threshold of the study he bade her good-night; but he did not touch her forehead with his lips. Marina had retired to bed, drinking wine slowly, sleeping when she was not drinking. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise. She knew the story only imperfectly, and followed it now with a passionate and deepening interest. He looked no longer at his wife.
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