" The girl fished into the bottle for an olive. Raymond Plote would only be missed by his mother. To-night we leave for Marseilles. Her hair was gathered up behind, in a sort of pad, according to the then prevailing mode; and she wore a muslin cap, and pinners with crow-foot edging. She was alarmed at how little her husband Gianfrancesco packed for the trip, leaving behind his best scarlet and black lucco, which he wore for every business and political meeting. And I’ve read, and thought, and guessed, and looked—until MY innocence—it’s smirched. Then he sat down and filled his pipe slowly and thoughtfully.
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