Their idea of maidenly innocence was just a blank white—the sort of flat white that doesn’t shine. She occupied a small sofa, a little apart, a ruddy-complexioned gentleman some years her senior beside her, and glanced about with an air of considerable unease. " "You don't say so!" exclaimed Shotbolt. He stopped short with a little exclamation of surprise. He was a London man of business, spending a small legacy in Paris. " "Go on, tell me," he urged, enchanted. She tolerated spitballs in her curly hair and had to buy a new backpack when hers was stolen.
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