Her heart was beating with quite unaccustomed vigour, her hands were hot, she was conscious of a warmth in her blood which the summer sunshine was scarcely responsible for. She remained for some seconds crouching at the fender, poker in hand. ‘Espèce de bête,’ she snarled. The doctor had sown a seed, carelessly. Most subjects of any depth were taboo between them, especially when they were in his convertible. But De Maupassant—sheer off! Stick to Dickens and Thackeray and Hugo.
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