She was aware of him—a silk-hatted, shiny-black figure on the opposite side of the Avenue; and then, abruptly and startlingly, he crossed the road and saluted and spoke to her. And behind— there was Paris, memories of amazing things, memories which made his cheeks burn and his heart beat quickly as he sat there waiting for her. “Most of it is ugly and frowsy,” she declared, “but it isn’t worth talking about. "Wretch!" cried Jack. “You cannot! Oh, you cannot.
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