Gay," he added, turning to the poet. That terrible laughter, just before his senses had left him! Why? Here was a word that volleyed at her from all directions, numbed and bewildered her: the multiple echoes of her own first utterance of the word. “Why not?” “Because you are mine. As silent as she had remained about who had brought her home last night. ‘That’s better. ‘Jacques! This—this bête he attacks me, and you stand there and you do nothing. But there was no sign from her. But Enschede took them as they came, without question.
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