Valade, who was standing by her chair, glancing around the packed pink-papered saloon with a heavy frown on his face, was a thickset man of coarse, reddened feature, with a discontented air. “There are policemen—and buses. She could now see to read; so she stirred the manuscript about until she came upon the first page. Nothing at all. No matter how often she came across this phase in love stories, there was never anything explanatory: as if all human beings perfectly understood.
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