The fire still burned brightly. ‘Do not think—’ he panted, ‘that I am finished—with you, mademoiselle. Each manuscript was like the other: the same lovely treatment of an unlovely subject. It was John Diedermayer, who had been transformed into a young scholar with a large pair of wire-rimmed eyeglasses on. So they fenced with smiles. E. Both of them. ‘Well?’ she said. Something in his smile, in the cynical suggestiveness of his deferential tone, maddened her. Such was the simple code that displayed itself in all his thoughts.
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