” She said bitterly. ’ ‘This, monsieur le major, is entirely your own affair,’ said the lady, haughty again. “I wonder,” he said, “how you would like to be made love to—boldly or timorously or sentimentally. She addresses you as the Flower of the Lotus, as the Resplendent Moonbeam. We pretend we never think of everything that makes us what we are.
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