. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. The Frenchman had moved back into Piccadilly from Down Street, at which the lad following him had immediately sauntered away a yard or two. ” “Lady Ferringhall! Anna!” he exclaimed. He waved a hand toward the sea. . “Why did you ever let me love you? Why did you ever let me peep through the gates of Paradise? Oh! my God! I don’t begin to feel and realize this yet.
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