She fidgeted and looked away. That was the Frenchie, Valade, surely. A home MAY be a sort of cage, but still—it’s a home. He stood there, large and dark, enunciating, in his clear voice from beneath his large mustache, clear flat sentences, deliberately kindly. Her voice recalled him. And Ritter’s, too, was very amusing and foreign and discreet; a little rambling room with a number of small tables, with red electric light shades and flowers. It got on my nerves—the women I saw. "We mustn't disturb the patient.
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