There is the election——” He laughed derisively. She reminded him sometimes of the one holy and ineffable Madonna, at others of Berode, the great courtezan of her day, who had sent kings away from her doors, and had just announced her intention of ending her life in a convent. ‘Moi, je vais vous tuer!’ ‘I don’t think so,’ Gerald said through his teeth. Opening the door, he found it littered with straw, on which he threw himself, and instantly fell asleep.
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