‘Quite wrong, monsieur. She wanted to think of him as her beloved person, to be near him and watch him, to have him going about, doing this and that, saying this and that, unconscious of her, while she too remained unconscious of herself. "Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard. What better way to be rid of him? ‘Jacques,’ she uttered urgently.
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