But I dare not accept it. So she took up Stevenson and began to read aloud. “I’ll never be happy again! I hate you! But most of all, what you have made me! A flesh-eating demon cannibal, just like you! I should be dead, dead and lying at the bottom of the sea. It was about—a question of what I might do or might not do. She felt that she had passed a difficult corner, and that now she could go on talking with him again, just as she had been used to do before she understood what was the matter with her. “Of course, one lives differently in Paris, but then—Paris is Paris. Rot, no doubt; but we can’t alter it. She sank upon her knees and unbuttoned his coat. " "What for? What do you want of them?" "Why, they are … yours.
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