“We have a small studio,” she murmured, “in the Rue de St. It was a queer little bed-sitting-room almost in the roof, with a partition right across it. “I wonder,” he said, “how you would like to be made love to—boldly or timorously or sentimentally. I’m a Socialist, Miss Stanley. I should have gone mad without it. The blinds were all drawn, the sunlight kept out, one could not tell what colors these gray swathings hid. She threw her arms around Rollo's neck and laid her cheek upon the flea-bitten head.
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