They drove up into Paris in an open fiacre with a soft cool wind blowing in their faces, hand in hand beneath the rug. “You must leave me your address if you please,” he said, as she rose to go. Maggot, who promptly interposed her cudgel. “Look here, father,” she said, with a change in her voice, “suppose I won’t stand it?” He regarded her as though this was a new idea.
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