They drove up into Paris in an open fiacre with a soft cool wind blowing in their faces, hand in hand beneath the rug. ‘Lord,’ he uttered, glancing about with a disparaging eye. "What do you mean?" cried Winifred in alarm. “Who tied this scarf here?” he asked, looking up. He would never recognize me now. ‘I assure you it suits her as Mary would not.
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