" "What is it?" asked the poor woman. The man who staggers, whose face is flushed, whose attitude is either noisily friendly or truculent, has some chance; liquor bends him eventually. “But I wish,” she said, “I had some idea what I was really up to. ‘Dolt! Muttonheaded oaf! Why the deuce couldn’t he have sent you home?’ Valade cut in at that. “Why do you hate me again, my love?” He seemed to brighten, feeding upon the intensity of her emotion.
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