Michelle stopped by the Beck’s after school that day. ‘You!’ ‘Yes, it is I, mademoiselle,’ he continued in his own tongue. Very well. She realized more and more the quality of the brink upon which she stood—the dreadful readiness with which in certain moods she might plunge, the unmitigated wrongness and recklessness of such a self-abandonment. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise. There was no answer.
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