“You are Mademoiselle Pellissier?” he asked, without rising to his feet. “You silly wimmin,” he said over and over again throughout the hearing, plucking at his blotting-pad with busy hands. Nothing else matters. There’s nothing happened at all!” She didn’t mean, he concluded, to give him any more trouble ever, and he was free to begin a fresh chromatic novel—he had just finished the Blue Lagoon, which he thought very beautiful and tender and absolutely irrelevant to Morningside Park—or work in peace at his microtome without bothering about her in the least. Her back arched slightly in response.
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