It resembled Mardi Gras, and she thought disdainfully of New Orleans. "Bah!" cried Jack, contemptuously; "nobody's disgraced and ruined unless he's found out. ‘If you did not want me to talk of it,’ she told him with characteristic insouciance, ‘you should not have mentioned the matter to me. Every one else does. Only three days. ‘Gérard will think that I have gone back to London. But De Maupassant—sheer off! Stick to Dickens and Thackeray and Hugo. ’ ‘Don’t call me by name,’ she snapped. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. "I've a good deal to do. Fly! fly!" "Do not think of me, mother, but of yourself," cried Jack, in an agony of tears.
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