The latch came with a weak click. He must have been following her from room to room, silent in his stockinged feet. She would not look at him, would not think of him; when her mind wavered, then she muttered to herself in the darkness so as to keep hold of her generalizations. “I know,” she said quietly, “that Paris, where she has been so much admired, is not a good place for her. " There had never been, from that fatal hour eight months gone down to this, the inclination to confess.
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