“Oh, I am lonely,” she moaned. ’ ‘Then what?’ demanded Lucilla in a hushed tone. It is enough to make a man throw away canvas and brushes into the bottomless precipices, enough to make one weep with despair at his utter and absolute impotence. She was aware of him—a silk-hatted, shiny-black figure on the opposite side of the Avenue; and then, abruptly and startlingly, he crossed the road and saluted and spoke to her. Paris, always beautiful even in the darkness, glittered away to the horizon.
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