“Remember,” he said, “you are not by any means a dying man now, but you’ll never pull through if you don’t husband your strength. An old man and a young girl, the one as stubbornly offensive as the other. You have to come over to my house. Gerald, I mean, not Madame Valade. My, um, my curfew. His new wife’s face was sweet and angelic with hair the color of flax, her belly already visibly large beneath a roe skin pelt. She would be healthy, too, and vigorous.
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