His next occupation was to take out his pistols, examine the priming, and rub the flints. ‘You!’ ‘Yes, it is I, mademoiselle,’ he continued in his own tongue. I knew it was in vain to cry 'murder!' in the Mint, so I had recourse to stratagem. And by degrees, perhaps, that maiden distrust of yours that makes you shrink from my kisses, will vanish.
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