I often think of those delightful evenings in Paris. She snapped out of her blissful state and looked at him squarely in the eyes. “What did it matter?” she cried. He leaned forward, and looked into the eyes of the woman he loved, and it seemed to him that she sang back to him with a sudden note of something like passion breaking here and there through the gay mocking words which flowed with such effortless and seductive music from her lips. It was wonderful to think this thing had lived, had felt and suffered.
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