“I have given it up,” she answered. It was better even than the hymn-singing. Paris, always beautiful even in the darkness, glittered away to the horizon. The smells of skewered fennel, roast chicken, and broiled pheasant saturated the air, and she could smell other wonderful aromas about them. But it don't much matter—though he's a devilish shrewd fellow, and might have helped me out of a difficulty, had any occurred.
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