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She always managed to get back to the bungalow before he did. Her husband had caught her leaning over a precipice into the ruins of the oubliette, and had punished her by flogging her back with a switch. “I believe,” he said stiffly, “that these are the apartments of Miss Pellissier. You ought to have had better advice two years ago. She fluttered her eyelashes, and adopted the soulful tone that served her well at times. Something in his smile, in the cynical suggestiveness of his deferential tone, maddened her.
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