She flung herself back into the bare little room, cold, empty, comfortless. The door leading to the front of the house was stealthily opening. "Now, let's see who'll dare to take him down," she cried. She is called Madame Ibstock, you understand. The entire city seemed to exist for beauty and art alone. The satisfaction of cheating Death again. It feels like too much gold-dust clutched in one’s hand. Analysis would come later, when the primitive conscience, satisfied, would cease to dominate his thought and action.
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