’ ‘You should be happy that you are not dead,’ she retorted, but with a diminution of the venom and fright in her voice. She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. “Of course, one lives differently in Paris, but then—Paris is Paris. A man's laced hat,—whether adopted from the caprice of the moment, or habitually worn, we are unable to state,—cocked knowingly on her head, harmonized with her masculine appearance. In fact, one of them was downright sceptical. But you must promise me not to go near that abandoned hussy at Willesden.
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