The lights of the Champs Elysées and the Place de la Concorde, suggestive, brilliant, seductive, shone like an army of fireflies against the deep cool background of the night. They were in different key, they had a different timbre. Sir John was not used to such glances, and he liked them. She let him have it all, as it was, after all, for the last time. You are different, Lucia, undamaged even after what you have been through, still pure of heart. “Everything very nice, I am sure,” Miss Stanley murmured to Capes as he steered her to a place upon the little sofa before the fire. It must be somewhere hereabouts.
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