“She’s my wife,” the man muttered. The events that had initially followed in the wake of her triumph over Emile Gosse had quite confused and dazed her. His lips were tight drawn. He depended upon her, for his medicine, for his drink, for the little amusement it was now permissible to give him. He was never drunk in the accepted meaning of the word; rather he walked in a kind of stupefaction. I do not love you. And now, a fair exchange, Sir. I haven't touched the other.
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