The man was mad to marry me. I am not of the canaille, but a bourgeois. Not even, it seemed, this interfering monsieur le major. They seed beyond all reason. I don’t suggest any philanthropy. The Night-Cellar XVIII. Where the stuff came from was always a mystery. He knew my name, and also that I had been living in Paris, and a man doesn’t risk claiming a girl for his wife, as a rule, for nothing. He was conscious of a peculiar pleasure in sitting there and thinking of those few hours which already were becoming to assume a definite importance in his mind—a place curiously apart from those dry-as-dust images which had become the gods of his prosaic life. The sun was setting in spectacular multicolored streams beyond Whitefield Park. Opposite to it was placed the Jew. I couldn’t help the thought. I never made any effort to touch them; so by and by they learned to light fearlessly on my arms and shoulders.
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