“It can’t make any difference to you, and there are not half a dozen people in Paris who could tell us apart. “These are her rooms,” she said. So, in broken, rather breathless phrases, he told his story; and when he had done, he laid his arms upon the table and bent his head to them. These were less like streets than labyrinths, hewn through an eternal twilight. Shy, grateful in her loneliness for this unexpected attention, she had listened. " "Oh, that!" He raised his head, staring at her in blank astonishment.
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