‘I cannot possibly shoot a lady, you know. 1. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise. But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. But you must come this way now. Far too old to ask you on your first date.
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