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“I’d rather go as a chorus-girl,” she said. She was trying by some wonderful, secret, and motionless gymnastics to restrain her tears. ‘Peste,’ she wailed, as Emile dropped to the floor, ducking down. I spent my fair share of time in the closet. ‘Anyhow, never mind that now. Pull yourself together now. She found it extremely difficult to infuse an air of quiet correctitude into her return through the window, and when she was safely inside she waved clinched fists and executed a noiseless dance of rage. Spurling was no longer allowed to visit him; he was again loaded with irons; fastened by an enormous horse-padlock to a staple in the floor; and only allowed to take repose in a chair.
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