“In Paris our lives were far apart, and we had seldom the same friends. Stood on his dignity and shut us up in great style. She laughed. She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. It was now a quarter past twelve. The latter gentleman did full justice to the good things before him; but he drank sparingly, and was visibly annoyed by his companion's intemperance. It was his turn to express astonishment. Instinctively she knew—some human recollection she had inherited—that she must not disturb him in this man-agony.
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