” “It’s an unrest—a longing—What’s that?” The waiter had intervened. She had asked to borrow his pencil out of dire necessity. It was filled with sopping lichens and green benches too slimy to sit upon. A snarl contorted his features, and he marched up to it, laying his pistol down on the marquetry table so that his hands were free to grab the picture off the wall. That is why I have dyed my hair, that is why I have abandoned my rôle of ingenuèe and altered my whole style of dress. “We were bound to do this when you kissed me,” she sobbed through her tears.
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