‘Peste,’ she wailed, as Emile dropped to the floor, ducking down. Hetty, looking out of the window—she always smoked her after-breakfast cigarette at the window for the benefit of the less advanced section of Morningside Park society—and trying not to raise objections, saw Miss Stanley going down toward the shops. “When you married me——” Her little hand flashed out across the table. “There are policemen—and buses.
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