‘Who, the émigrés?’ ‘Do I speak of the English, imbecile? Certainly the émigrés. There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets. But to-day he did not get beyond half a dozen desultory start-offs. He stalked her, he stared at her, he craved her, he sidled slinking and propitiatory and yet relentlessly toward her, until at last she awoke from the suffocating nightmare nearness of his approach, and lay awake in fear and horror listening to the unaccustomed sounds of the hotel.
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