It doesn't matter that you deal with black people. Supposing you take them and read them? You might be able to tell me why I felt disappointed. And I think also that Gosse—I mean that one who calls himself Valade—stole it. She did not want particularly to know what had caused his agony, what had driven him back to the old coat. My, um, my curfew. As we turned the corner of the street, I noticed that the electric light was burning in this room.
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