He walked out into the Champs Elysées and sat down. It was a serene and charming evening, and twilight was gently stealing over the face of the country. ‘Oh, Jacques, I cannot forgive myself!’ ‘Never you fret, miss,’ he uttered at once in a faint voice. She savored the sweetness of his lips, all of his great youth and passion and longed for his innocence, his complete lack of the knowledge of terrible things.
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