As she approached, the carpenter's wife eyed her from head to foot, in the hope of finding something in her person or apparel to quarrel with. "Whose grave is this?" he inquired of a man who was standing near it. “I will come—with pleasure,” she said, “if you will promise to treat me as a new acquaintance—not to refer to—Paris—at all. “Yes. “Guess who I’m going out with?” Michelle asked her one day at lunch. At any rate, it would be good to hear him saying the sort of things he did—perhaps now she would grasp them better—with this world-shaking secret brandishing itself about inside her head within a yard of him. The fellow is little better than a lunatic.
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