That night in Paris I saw on the bills ‘Fatal Motor Accidents. It began to rain, a cold sweat of precipitation that was more sickly than refreshing. "Now, Sir, I'll trouble you for your coat. “Don’t you know, child, that this is torture for me? What in God’s name more can you have to tell me?” Her face had become almost like a marble image. At times he seemed to be claiming pity from her; at times he was threatening her with her check and exposure; at times he was boasting of his inflexible will, and how, in the end, he always got what he wanted. Anna picked up an ancient magazine, and began to turn over the pages in a leisurely way. Somebody ought to talk to him, warn him.
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