Taking the direction pointed out, he rode off. ‘Looks like it. Paris is not the place for two young girls. CHAPTER XXVII. Then, naturally, I went on talking. Love was joy, and joyous she was when alone. I thought perhaps you were staying with them, as you did not seem particularly anxious to recognize your old friends. Her formerly brown hair was dyed a white shade of blonde. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava.
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