"What for?" rejoined Quilt, evasively. ‘It is in truth you?’ ‘Of course it is I. He stopped on the curb-stone, not facing her but as if he was on his way to cross the road, and spoke to her suddenly over his shoulder. ” “It was behind the Place de Vendome, on the other side from the Ritz. And I’ve read, and thought, and guessed, and looked—until MY innocence—it’s smirched.
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