They drove up into Paris in an open fiacre with a soft cool wind blowing in their faces, hand in hand beneath the rug. Thames unfolded the drawing, smoothed out its creases, and beheld a portrait of himself. The Leads 405 XXI. It is that, is it not?” “No,” he answered readily. Hot coffee and cakes were sent in to them in the morning by some intelligent sympathizer, or she would have starved all day. “Just leave them with me for now, Clotilde.
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