. At last—I told a story. It was a bogus affair altogether, kept by some blackguard or other of an Englishman. Anyhow, it were me as got you down to the wetnurse. ‘Would you care for some refreshment? A glass of wine, perhaps?’ ‘Nothing, merci, I do not remain,’ she answered, although she did not rise. It was in her eyes—the big thing that comes but once. “We have a small studio,” she murmured, “in the Rue de St. ” She said.
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