She was vehemently impatient—she did not clearly know for what—to do, to be, to experience. We’ll be somewhere on the floor above. And now, my love," she added, with a relenting look, "I'm content to make up our quarrel. ‘Jacques, do not die while I am gone. Something tells me I am rushing on greater danger. He flipped the television off. She felt that she had passed a difficult corner, and that now she could go on talking with him again, just as she had been used to do before she understood what was the matter with her.
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