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She thrust at him, following, almost spitting him as he crashed against the altar, rocking the huge candlesticks and the vessels that stood on it. Other phrases returned now, like echoes. “Those things are not for me just at present. The thing rankled in her mind night and day. ‘But we—mon mari and myself—we have the bonne chance. Sweet sixteen year old Shari, who never once figured out the morning sleep hangovers she suffered monthly. She sensed he might try and wane on her doorstep. He would raise her up once again, ply her with silks and jewels again, all of the accoutrements of the new generation: the cars, the toys, the restaurants, and the prestige.
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