The prostitute’s attack was predictable, typical. She turned the gas up in her little sitting-room, and sank wearily into an easy chair. It is enough to make a man throw away canvas and brushes into the bottomless precipices, enough to make one weep with despair at his utter and absolute impotence. He'll be able to help us a little now. Indeed, it seemed inevitable that she must clear it up with his assistance, or not at all. She watched as his headlights flooded the driveway and many minutes after his car was gone. Don’t try. “And I’m not happy. Love—admiration for your matchless beauty alone sways me.
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