But she found an unknown lady’s discarded garments, and selected some of those that she tried on, sending Kimble off down the secret passage to load them onto the horse she had borrowed—unbeknownst to its owner—from Father Saint-Simon. Lucy grabbed his shirtsleeve, whispering on tiptoe. I meant to lie to you. Do not avoid me if we meet by accident, but I trust to you all not to let the accident happen if you can help it. “Of course, one lives differently in Paris, but then—Paris is Paris.
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