In a moment or two, Madame Valade recovered her sangfroid. She heard the shower running and looked at his floor. " "But, Lord, man!—don't you ever get lonesome?" "Don't you?" "I'm too busy. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. He did not like it, he said, with a significant look, to be reminded of either his books or his dinners after he had done with them. It was of no use, she let him do it as she could not be strangled.
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