“You stupid bitch. Upon my word—you are Miss Pellissier, aren’t you?” “I certainly am,” she admitted. Just as soon as I deal with this little tramp, I’m going to divorce you and take every penny that you’ve ever made, including your pension and your measly inheritance from 125 your dishrag of a father!” Something in the little man’s mind snapped. She had black hair, fine eyebrows, and a clear complexion; and the forces that had modelled her features had loved and lingered at their work and made them subtle and fine. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen.
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