He flung open the door and cast a quick glance round. Was this the result of some strange experiment? It was the person of Annabel Pellissier—the soul of a very different order of being. The more haste, the worse speed—better the feet slip than the tongue. She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances. It was a clear, lovely, October morning. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise.
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