“Go to the far corner,” he said, “and sing the last verse of Les Petites. ‘Tell me, my boy. She lingered over donning her winter coat, buttoning each toggle and placket, double knotting her long scarf. And now you must go back, take up your work and think all this over. It was now whitening, hissing, and seething like an enormous cauldron. She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances.
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