The Girl with the Golden Eyes

The Girl with the Golden Eyes


a kind of attractions within which so much horror is to be encountered is, absolutely, the final point of the Parisian populace—a humans apprehensive to behold, gaunt, yellow, tawny. isn't Paris an unlimited box in perpetual turmoil from a typhoon of pursuits underneath that are whirled alongside a crop of humans, who're, quite often, reaped through dying, merely to be born back as pinched as ever, males whose twisted and contorted faces provide out at each pore the intuition, the will, the poisons with which their brains are pregnant; now not faces rather a lot as mask; mask of weak spot, mask of power, mask of distress, mask of pleasure, mask of hypocrisy; all alike worn and stamped with the indelible indicators of a panting cupidity? what's it they need? Gold or excitement?

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