"And yet—but it is only part of the chain of ill-luck that seems wound around me. She did her best to do this. At first she thought that the woman was just a servant. It was an intimate smell, the unmistakable scent of him and another woman. You'll be wasting his time. Her voice was weak and flat. I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry. “Intolerable idiots!. She gathered her black purse, a pointless thing made of cardboard covered in sateen and bejeweled with an assortment of rhinestones. It is I who am persecuted by the man who calls himself your husband.
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