‘Ah, there is the little menace itself,’ he drawled, recovering some of his own sangfroid. He remembered little whispered speeches of hers, so like the Annabel of Paris, so unlike the woman he loved, a hundred little things should have told him long ago. ” She looked into her glass. A stout female stood in the aperture, an oil lamp in her hand. "The traps!" responded a bystander. The next moment he was by her side. He was disquieted. The room in which this interview took place had a sordid and miserable look.
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