She donned her fuzzy slippers and traipsed downstairs, the welcoming smell of coffee beckoning her, the sound of Looney Toons music barely audible from the television set. “It was the night you left Paris. Her new husband had paid for a cadre of escorts back to Mantua. Ain't he, Madam?'" "He is, indeed," replied the widow, fervently; "more—much more than that. She leaned back in the cab with half-closed eyes. She could tell that they too would find their legs jutting awkwardly from the petite furniture.
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