‘And I trust you will pardon my inadequacies. He had nothing to guide him; for though the torches were blazing ruddily below, their gleam fell only on the side of the building. And this is not France, you understand. When the turnkey, next morning, stepp'd into his room, The sight of the hole in the wall struck him dumb; The sheriff's black bracelets lay strewn on the ground, But the lad that had worn 'em could nowhere be found. There was no one stirring in the flats. . I have very few friends in Paris.
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