In a moment or two, Madame Valade recovered her sangfroid. “I was lonely. He was keen to get to work, but the inspiration would not come. On the one hand, she seemed to think plainly and simply, and would talk serenely and freely about topics that most women have been trained either to avoid or conceal; and on the other she was unconscious, or else she had an air of being unconscious—that was the riddle—to all sorts of personal applications that almost any girl or woman, one might have thought, would have made. Below the window he saw two coolies carrying a coffin, which presently they callously dumped into a yawning pit.
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