And behind— there was Paris, memories of amazing things, memories which made his cheeks burn and his heart beat quickly as he sat there waiting for her. Now I shall never hear it but what this evening will come pouring back over me. “No!” he said aloud at last. The poor boy, whose hands were pinioned behind him, looked very pale, but neither trembled, nor exhibited any other symptom of alarm. Yet you make our Bohemianism seem like a vulgar thing.
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