Men do services for the love of women, and the woman who takes must pay. If you were a poet in need of rhymes, you had only to turn to a certain page. She sat, crouched together, by the corner of the hearthrug under the bookcase that supported the pig’s skull, and looked into the fire and up at Ann Veronica’s face, and let herself go. ’ ‘Because I was a servant in the vicomte’s house? Things have changed.
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