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Oh, the scent of the flowers that day, the delicious quiet, the swallows that dived before us in the river. “I was able to borrow the money. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget. Wood, carving for his friends, and pledging the carpenter, he had his hands full. Later, at the bottom of that envelope I found a letter. “Because I hate you!” She spat.
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