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enunciating the words, obviously enjoying the sound of his own voice. Even when he was busy stretching a fur skin, there would be an expression of sensuality on his face, as though he were caressing a woman. He seemed to take enjoyment in everything and to grow fat in his permanent ecstasy. His wide, meaty rump strained against the smock he wore. His fleshy face was always smoothly shaved; his hair and his eyes shone with a lusty dark gleam.

With his superior air he always seemed to know how to keep the workers in their place. He never talked of his private life. If anyone ventured to ask him a question of a personal nature, he would assume an offended air. As a rule he would plan his sly attacks on the workers in the shop like an adroit strategist waiting for the most favorable moment. But this time, for some unknown reason, he did not delay the attack. The moment the workers came back from lunch he started off on a seemingly innocent conversation with Suzette, whose machine stood across from Anna's.

"How do you feel this fine Monday, Mademoiselle Suzette?" he asked in his fawning voice.

"Fine, merci beaucoup, like any other day."

"Wh-at?" he exclaimed, drawing out and caressing the word. "Doesn't the day of the week make any difference to you? I know of women who are always so nervous on Mondays, all tightened up-or sentimental-or hysterical."

"Why particularly on Mondays?" Suzette pertly showed him the tip of her tongue.

"Ha, ha, ha!" Masson waved his finger mockingly and burst into a laugh. "You're not trying to tell me that you're so naive? You're certainly not going to try to make me believe that there's no difference for you between a Monday and- a Sunday, for instance."

"Oh, but of course!" Suzette, aware of what he was aiming