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308 pages, Mass Market Paperback
First published January 1, 1865
It was one of those woods like the old Bois de Boulogne, dusty and baked, a banal, deflowered resort, one of those places of miserly shade where people go to stroll at the gates of big cities—parodies of forests, full of wine-stalls and where, in the undergrowth, are found slices of melon and the bodies of suicides
And releasing the corners of the bit of linen, she spread out what was inside: onto the table flowed greasy bank-notes stuck together at the back and pinned together, ancient louis d’or rusted green, hundred-sous pieces that were all black, forty-sous pieces, ten-sous pieces, poor people’s money, money-box money, money made dirty by dirty hands, crumpled in a leather pocket-book, defaced in a cash-desk full of small change—money that smelt of sweat.