At this time of universal havoc and despair,—when all London quaked at the voice of the storm,—the carpenter, who was exposed to its utmost fury, fared better than might have been anticipated. I often think of those delightful evenings in Paris. A thin line of red appeared in the white neck. “Perhaps for me,” she added, with a sudden wistful look out of the bare high window, “a night of beginnings.
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