Sometimes she spent the afternoon in the streets of Paris.
This was before computerization.
We went home, intercepted college mail, forged signatures.
Anyway, his house was deserted.
The parents no longer loved each other.
They avoided each other and, fleeing the hearth, they avoided her.
She managed not to dry out too often, even if she benefited from a kind of exceptional diet.
The flash of desire glimpsed in the eyes of certain professors, men or women, arranged his affairs well.
A movement, a smile, he was forgiven.
She was fooling around, disorganized.
Without discipline.
We wanted to believe her.
Being pretty has its perks too.
In Paris, as long as you look at the city, you don't feel alone.
She loved the gardens, especially those of the Palais-Royal whose familiar splendor, flowery enclosures, fountain with round basin seemed to be built on her scale.
The deserted hours when there were only babies, the poor and the...
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