“We were good friends in Paris, weren’t we? You made me all sorts of promises, we planned no end of nice things, and then—without a word to any one you disappeared. This "fatal retreat for the unfortunate brave" was marked by a low wooden railing, within which stood the triple tree. The lady's name's engraved inside, but so small I can scarcely read it. The sun was rising, illuminating the trees in black as if they were drawn in ink. But she has let fall enough for me to understand that she knows about her father’s misdeeds.
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