He forgot for the moment his own self-pity, the egotism of his own passionate love. “I am afraid,” she said, “that he must have a skeleton key to these rooms. ‘Laisse-moi!’ Impatience swamped him. “It is such a very respectable boarding-house,” she said. He ushered them with an amiable flat hand into a minute apartment with a little gas-stove, a silk crimson-covered sofa, and a bright little table, gay with napery and hot-house flowers. I am certainly no ghost.
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