Last night there had been no time. He left his companion in the midst of a glowing eulogy of Bastien Leparge, and boldly intercepted his hostess as she moved from one group to join another. "When is he to suffer?" she demanded, fixing her large black eyes, which burnt with an insane gleam, upon him. If they do, now and then, run away with a knocker, paint a sign, beat the watch, or huff a magistrate, they pay for their pastime, and that's sufficient. Women are not in the world in the same sense that men are—fighting individuals in a scramble.
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