There was already a score or more of people there, some standing up and talking together, others seated in chairs ranged along the wall. Her mouth was worthy of her face; with small, pearly-white teeth; lips glossy, rosy, and pouting; and the sweetest smile imaginable, playing constantly about them. The cold air gave her gooseflesh under her red brocade dress as she slipped outside. Sepulchre's clock struck eight. That's the way she strikes me. She was new, unlike any other woman he had met in all his wide travel.
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