“I am afraid,” he said gravely, “that your sister has been a little indiscreet. ” “Let us say that Café Maston, in the Boulevard des Italiennes, at half-past seven then,” he decided. So perfect was the illusion, that he could almost fancy he heard the solemn voice of the ordinary warning him that his race was nearly run, and imploring him to prepare for eternity. “Sir John,” her aunt repeated, with thin emphasis, “is coming to see your sister. One transgression; he was sure of that.
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