CHAPTER XII. “I might go home, I don’t know. " "No," cried the lady, "this room—I recollect—it has a back window. “In Paris our lives were far apart, and we had seldom the same friends. The pistol was his own, it is true, but it was one which was taken from him when he forced his way in upon me before. \" Michelle said in a bitter voice. Of what use was the temporary set-back to memory, when it always returned with redoubled poignancy? Then came another thought, astonishing.
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