At the thought of the major, her tears redoubled and she was obliged to rip off a piece from the remnants of her already maltreated underpetticoats with which to blow her nose and soak the damp from her cheeks. She is a fortune-teller and a vessel for man’s pleasure. “You are late,” she murmured. “For one thing, Anna,” she remarked, “we had not the slightest idea that you had left, or were leaving Paris. That’s about the beginning. I—I am a lovesick idiot, and not accountable for my actions.
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