They drove up into Paris in an open fiacre with a soft cool wind blowing in their faces, hand in hand beneath the rug. "What ho!" he cried slapping Smith, who had fallen asleep with the brandybottle in his grasp, upon the shoulder. "'Tis a cruel thing you've done, lad. The slack cloth of her habit caught on a curlicue in the carved back of the pew in front, pulling her suddenly about.
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