His eyes were bright, and his voice had in it an unaccustomed timbre. “For one thing, Anna,” she remarked, “we had not the slightest idea that you had left, or were leaving Paris. ‘You!’ ‘Yes, it is I, mademoiselle,’ he continued in his own tongue. Mirages, over which he was constantly throwing bridges which were wasted efforts, since invariably they spanned solid ground.
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