And then she came out into the street, sure only of one thing—that she could not return directly to her lodgings. Lucy sat paralyzed, as still as Tiger Lily on the death raft. “Then why go out with him, Michelle? Why belabor yourself?” Lucy questioned. A fortnight passed, then a month. “Garçon,” he said, “will you ask the gentleman at the next table if he will do me the honour of taking a glass of wine with me.
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