You have spoken her name, I think, Marthe. Then making a pretence of stooping to rearrange her flowing train, she glanced at Anna, and half stopped in her progress down the room. He slackened his pace as he reached the flat. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. “Don’t!” she begged. . "You are a paragon of prudence and discretion," rejoined the woollen-draper, drawing his chair closer to hers.
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