It was she who felt guilty as he showed her their bedroom, smelling her perfume, ingesting their psychic leftovers. He walked through the misty September night to his rooms. He glanced downwards at the impetuous torrent, which he could perceive shooting past him with lightning swiftness in the gloom. ‘But I find you excessively rude, Gérard. "Ay, indeed! And who may that be?" inquired his wife.
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