Another long interval elapsed. “What do you think of that?” he asked. "Enough!" exclaimed Wild, triumphantly. “He is Annabel’s husband,” she reminded him. They drove up into Paris in an open fiacre with a soft cool wind blowing in their faces, hand in hand beneath the rug. "To him I owe everything," continued the widow, "life itself—nay, more than life,—for without his assistance I should have perished, body and soul. A crisis had been reached, and she was almost glad it had been reached. It was hard to associate her with the stories which he and all Paris had heard of “Alcide. “Quite right,” she said.
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