‘But I find you excessively rude, Gérard. Might we ask you if you have ever seen him, if you knew him at all before this evening?” She stood up suddenly, and turning her back to them, looked steadily out of the window. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. “Believe what, Michelle?” Lucy asked. It was an intimate smell, the unmistakable scent of him and another woman.
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