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“I heard the other day that she’d been taken in by some cad of a fellow who was cutting a great dash in Paris, personating Meysey Hill, the great railway man. ‘You see,’ he pursued blandly, ‘I lead a life of the most intolerable boredom. As she averted her gaze, a terrible idea crossed her. You have changed from the veriest butterfly to a woman—you wear different clothes, you have the air of another world. In one of the little red circles the doctor had traced that abbreviation. A large body of the constables of Westminster next made their appearance, the chief of whom entered the Lodge, where they were speedily joined by the civic authorities. On the one hand, she seemed to think plainly and simply, and would talk serenely and freely about topics that most women have been trained either to avoid or conceal; and on the other she was unconscious, or else she had an air of being unconscious—that was the riddle—to all sorts of personal applications that almost any girl or woman, one might have thought, would have made. "I'm sure he won't attempt to prevent me," rejoined Thames. ‘Jacques!’ He stopped, but he did not turn. The subject matter was generally worthless, but the handling was well done. He was amused. She is a fortune-teller and a vessel for man’s pleasure. He continued tenderly, almost affectionately.
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