How she had coveted her mother’s beauty and sought to emulate it, if only to please her. “I am getting plain,” she said, with a little shudder. ’ ‘Eh bien, what then?’ Emile sidled closer. He was caked with dried muck. ” He looked at her, his eyes illuminated by the glow of the dashboard. She had treated him badly; she had hurt him and her aunt; she had done wrong by their standards, and she would never persuade them that she had done right. He drove it into her missionary style, and though he was worried about hurting her, he could not stop himself from thrusting into her deeply. I made a wrong choice, it seems—but my voice remains. Ask your own conscience.
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