His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love. ‘You had better kill me, mademoiselle, because otherwise I shall end by strangling you. Wouldn't take my advice. Or, after all, is it worth while? The Channel is a little broader than the Boulevards— but one crosses it sometimes. ‘She? Sa femme? That is the game then? That she could dare to take my place, that salope. As for loving you, I do.
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