’ The expression on Emile Gosse’s face was vicious under the smile. He ushered them with an amiable flat hand into a minute apartment with a little gas-stove, a silk crimson-covered sofa, and a bright little table, gay with napery and hot-house flowers. Hadn’t they settled that already? “I want you as a friend,” he persisted, almost as if he disputed something. Ain't he, Madam?'" "He is, indeed," replied the widow, fervently; "more—much more than that.
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