” It was a tiny little room, daintily furnished, individual in its quaint colouring, and the masses of perfumed flowers set in strange and unexpected places. It was the one that she had sworn she’d throw out, if only Julian had not liked it so much. His attitude toward her was purely intellectual, free of any sentimentality, utterly selfish. Perhaps if I had watched over her more closely, things would have been different. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget. “And yet you still live, Butterfly. She is no longer mine; she is yours. G. The lights of the Champs Elysées and the Place de la Concorde, suggestive, brilliant, seductive, shone like an army of fireflies against the deep cool background of the night. He was part of the firm Martyska, Seeberg, and Diedermayer. ” “Do you still love him?” “Just the opposite. ‘You do not say, “I am a gentleman born.
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