’ ‘The tables, they are turned, I think,’ she returned. " Trenchard took up a pen. With his tongue lolling and his flea-bitten stump wagging apologetically, he glanced from face to face to see if there was any forgiveness visible. Small, but eminently serviceable. “Where?” “To that ball. She pointed suddenly at the portrait. She was in ill trim for walking, but somehow or other she made her way as far as the Champs Elysées, and sank down upon an empty seat.
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