She required no instructions from books; her wit and beauty were her own. I am not of the canaille, but a bourgeois. Her husband was drinking in the tavern with the other guests. The hansom drove off. “I hope you have not come for that. A dressing-room then. He reminds me of a slave I once had in Rome with those sullen dark eyes and that wistful pout. She enjoyed preparing the evening meals, the smells of potatoes roasting in the oven, the stink of onions in the pan, the crackle of chicken frying.
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