His scent was like sweet perfume in her state, like the sweet smell of infants. Drawing a pistol, and unclosing his lantern with the quickness of thought, he then burst through an open trap-door into a small loft. ‘I can take care of myself, bête. How would he act when he learned that it had vanished? She gathered up the manuscripts and restored them to the envelope. He agreed it was disgraceful. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill.
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