But I don’t care; I haven’t a spark of shame. Arrived in Paris she remembered that she had not the money for a fiacre. “Really, Sir John,” she said, “I don’t know how to thank you. Know that, don’t you?’ ‘Of course I know it,’ Lucy told him, and Melusine read the whisper in her mouth of those precious words, ‘I love you. His cigar burnt out between his fingers, and he threw it impatiently away.
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