“They say there are spots on the sun. What does it matter? It is here, and it is here to stay. It seemed to her that it was her duty to get up and clamor to go home to her room, to protest against his advances as an insult. The act was mechanical, a bit of sparring for time: his anger was searching about for a new vent. The parlour was cluttered but cosy. Michelle's home was one of the smaller palaces, made solidly of red brick with charming black shutters and window boxes full of drooping violets. Jolly hard life for a girl, getting a living.
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