“I heard the other day that she’d been taken in by some cad of a fellow who was cutting a great dash in Paris, personating Meysey Hill, the great railway man. ‘Must be still downstairs. How could you draw the curtain aside which hides the great and holy places of life—you, who have never loved?” “You have become French to the core,” she murmured. Her sense of humour could not wholly resist his abnormal gravity. “Want to see my fangs?” She asked.
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