She paused. “I hate you because you are the Devil! Rot in Hell!” She was shocked at her own accusation, how she had savored the words. “She finds lying up so much very irksome. I am an independent sort of person,” she continued, “and I am engaged in an attempt to earn my own living. . I thought that you loved Paris and your work so much. That's the kind, my friend, that always fall soft. “I’m not in the mood right this instant. ‘Come, mademoiselle, it is of no use to conceal anything from me, you know. She delighted in frustrating him. "You musht do dat shob yourself, Mishter Vild," rejoined Abraham, shaking his head. So, bloody but unbeaten, weak and spent but undaunted, he waited for the Wastrel to spring up. She is a fortune-teller and a vessel for man’s pleasure.
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