He walked through a wide open archway, curtained with deep-blue curtains, into the apartment that served as a reception-room. It is I who am persecuted by the man who calls himself your husband. Men had tried to kiss her— unshaven derelicts, some of them terrible—but she had always managed to escape. Kneebone smiled assent. His face fell. ‘You do not understand, Gérard. They alighted at the restaurant, and stood for a moment in the passage looking into the crowded room.
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