It is Thérèse. A certain irritation crept into his manner as he did so. Some of the delicate colour which the afternoon walk had brought into her cheeks had already returned. Don't strip me quite. She sat on the edge of her bed and looked about her, at her room, at the row of black-covered books and the pig’s skull. She would always be waiting upon this boy, he mused. Wild's dwelling without apprehension, or quitted it without satisfaction. She got up and unlocked the door.
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