She knew that to expect more now was like anticipating a gold-mine in the garden. He jumped out of the car. (What was the name he had given her that day?) He was walking beside the chair upon which appeared to be a bundle of colours. It was the same smell that she had in his memory, but now it was definite, palpable, like a perfume. My only excuse is that I missed my way here, and I am leaving Paris early to-morrow morning. It simply doesn’t count. My husband, he is cruel and wicked, and—and entirely undistinguished.
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