From the further end of the apartment came the low music of a violin. These were less like streets than labyrinths, hewn through an eternal twilight. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations. ‘Grace à vous, I am compelled to rescue myself. “Gods,” she said, at last, “I’ve done it this time!” “Well!” She took up the neat morocco purse, opened it, and examined the contents.
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