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Updated: June 13, 2025
"You mean Pierre Channet, the painter, Monsieur?" I had, of course, never heard of Pierre Channet, the painter, in my life, but I nodded as knowingly as if I had been on the most intimate relations with him for years. Then, again, this was my only way of getting down to his personal level, the only way I could draw him out and get at his real character.
The water trickled along his nose for two days as he lay on the slab, before they found out who he was." "In the morgue?" I inquired in a tone of surprise. I spoke as if this part of the story had not reached me. "In the morgue, Monsieur." The repeated words came as cold and merciless as the drops of water that fell on poor Channet as he lay under the gas-jets.
He said it quite simply, quite as a matter of course, the tones of his voice as monotonous as any he had yet used just as he had spoken of poor Channet in the morgue with the water trickling over his dead face. "Oh, then, even at fifty you have a sweetheart!" I blurted out with a sudden twist of my probe. I felt now that I might as well follow the iniquity to the end. "It is true, Monsieur."
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